ALL  ROADS 
LEAD  TO  CALVARY 


Ql  CALIE.  LIBBABY,  IXXS  AtfGELES 


ALL  ROADS 
LEAD  TO  CALVARY 


BY 


JEROME  K.  JEROME 

Author  of  "The  Passing  of  the  Third  Floor  Back,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
BT  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INO. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I i 

CHAPTER  II 12 

CHAPTER  III 28 

CHAPTER  IV        44 

CHAPTER  V 59 

CHAPTER  VI 75 

CHAPTER  VII 92 

CHAPTER  VIII in 

CHAPTER  IX        130 

CHAPTER  X 153 

CHAPTER  XI        174 

CHAPTER  XII 196 

CHAPTER  XIII 224 

CHAPTER  XIV 243 

CHAPTER  XV 260 

CHAPTER  XVI 279 

CHAPTER  XVII 308 

CHAPTER  XVIII 337 


2130740 


ALL  ROADS 
LEAD  TO  CALVARY 


ALL  ROADS  LEAD  TO  CALVARY 


CHAPTER  I 

SHE  had  not  meant  to  stay  for  the  service.  The 
door  had  stood  invitingly  open,  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  interior  had  suggested  to  her  the  idea  that  it 
would  make  good  copy.  "Old  London  Churches: 
Their  Social  and  Historical  Associations."  It 
would  be  easy  to  collect  anecdotes  of  the  famous 
people  who  had  attended  them.  She  might  fix  up 
a  series  for  one  of  the  religious  papers.  It  prom- 
ised quite  exceptional  material,  this  particular 
specimen,  rich  in  tombs  and  monuments.  There 
was  character  about  it,  a  scent  of  bygone  days. 
She  pictured  the  vanished  congregations  in  their 
powdered  wigs  and  stiff  brocades.  How  pictur- 
esque must  have  been  the  marriages  that  had  taken 
place  there,  say  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  or  of 
the  early  Georges.  The  church  would  have  been 
ancient  even  then.  With  its  air  of  faded  grandeur, 
its  sculptured  recesses  and  dark  niches,  the  tattered 
banners  hanging  from  its  roof,  it  must  have  made 
an  admirable  background.  Perhaps  an  historical 
novel  in  the  Thackeray  vein?  She  could  see  her 
heroine  walking  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her 
proud  old  soldier  father.  Later  on,  when  her 
journalistic  position  was  more  established,  she 

might  think  of  it.     It  was  still  quite  early.     There 

i 


2  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

would  be  nearly  half  an  hour  before  the  first  wor- 
shippers would  be  likely  to  arrive :  just  time  enough 
to  jot  down  a  few  notes.  If  she  did  ever  take  to 
literature  it  would  be  the  realistic  school,  she  felt, 
that  would  appeal  to  her.  The  rest,  too,  would  be 
pleasant  after  her  long  walk  from  Westminster. 
She  would  find  a  secluded  seat  in  one  of  the  high, 
stiff  pews,  and  let  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  sink 
into  her. 

And  then  the  pew-opener  had  stolen  up  unob- 
served, and  had  taken  it  so  for  granted  that  she 
would  like  to  be  shown  round,  and  had  seemed  so 
pleased  and  eager,  that  she  had  not  the  heart  to 
repel  her.  A  curious  little  old  party  with  a 
smooth,  peach-like  complexion  and  white  soft  hair 
that  the  fading  twilight,  stealing  through  the  yellow 
glass,  turned  to  gold.  So  that  at  first  sight  Joan 
took  her  for  a  child.  The  voice,  too,  was  so  ab- 
surdly childish  —  appealing,  and  yet  confident. 
Not  until  they  were  crossing  the  aisle,  where  the 
clearer  light  streamed  in  through  the  open  doors, 
did  Joan  see  that  she  was  very  old  and  feeble,  with 
about  her  figure  that  curious  patient  droop  that 
conies  to  the  work-worn.  She  proved  to  be  most 
interesting  and  full  of  helpful  information.  Mary 
Stopperton  was  her  name.  She  had  lived  in  the 
neighbourhood  all  her  life;  had  as  a  girl  worked 
for  the  Leigh  Hunts  and  had  "  assisted  "  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle.  She  had  been  very  frightened  of  the  great 
man  himself,  and  had  always  hidden  herself  be- 
hind doors  or  squeezed  herself  into  corners  and 
stopped  breathing  whenever  there  had  been  any 
fear  of  meeting  him  upon  the  stairs.  Until  one 


day,  having  darted  into  a  cupboard  to  escape  from 
him  and  drawn  the  door  to  after  her,  it  turned  out 
to  be  the  cupboard  in  which  Carlyle  was  used  to 
keep  his  boots.  So  that  there  was  quite  a  struggle 
between  them;  she  holding  grimly  on  to  the  door 
inside  and  Carlyle  equally  determined  to  open  it 
and  get  his  boots.  It  had  ended  in  her  exposure, 
with  trembling  knees  and  scarlet  face,  and  Carlyle 
had  addressed  her  as  "  woman,"  and  had  insisted 
on  knowing  what  she  was  doing  there.  And  after 
that  she  had  lost  all  terror  of  him.  And  he  had 
even  allowed  her  with  a  grim  smile  to  enter  occasion- 
ally the  sacred  study  with  her  broom  and  pan.  It 
had  evidently  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  her, 
that  privilege. 

"  They  didn't  get  on  very  well  together,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Carlyle  ?  "  Joan  queried,  scenting  the  oppor- 
tunity of  obtaining  first-class  evidence. 

'  There  wasn't  much  difference,  so  far  as  I  could 
see,  between  them  and  most  of  us,"  answered  the  lit- 
tle old  lady.  "  You're  not  married,  dear,"  she  con- 
tinued, glancing  at  Joan's  ungloved  hand,  "  but  peo- 
ple must  have  a  deal  of  patience  when  they  have  to 
live  with  us  for  twenty-four  hours  a  day.  You  see, 
little  things  we  do  and  say  without  thinking,  and  lit- 
tle ways  we  have  that  we  do  not  notice  ourselves, 
may  all  the  time  be  irritating  to  other  people." 

'What  about  the  other  people  irritating  us?" 
suggested  Joan. 

'  Yes,  dear,  and  of  course  that  can  happen  too," 
agreed  the  little  old  lady. 

"Did  he,  Carlyle,  ever  come  to  this  church?" 
asked  Joan. 


4  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Mary  Stopperton  was  afraid  he  never  had,  in  spite 
of  its  being  so  near.  "  And  yet  he  was  a  dear  good 
Christian  —  in  his  way,"  Mary  Stopperton  felt  sure. 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  in  his  way  '  ?  "  demanded 
Joan.  It  certainly,  if  Froude  was  to  be  trusted, 
could  not  have  been  the  orthodox  way. 

"  Well,  you  see,  dear,"  explained  the  little  old 
lady,  "  he  gave  up  things.  He  could  have  ridden 
in  his  carriage  "  —  she  was  quoting,  it  seemed,  the 
words  of  the  Carlyles'  old  servant  —  "  if  he'd  writ- 
ten the  sort  of  lies  that  people  pay  for  being  told, 
instead  of  throwing  the  truth  at  their  head." 

"  But  even  that  would  not  make  him  a  Christian," 
argued  Joan. 

"  It  is  part  of  it,  dear,  isn't  it?  "  insisted  Mary 
Stopperton.  "  To  suffer  for  one's  faith.  I  think 
Jesus  must  have  liked  him  for  that." 

They  had  commenced  with  the  narrow  strip  of 
burial  ground  lying  between  the  south  side  of  the 
church  and  Cheyne  Walk.  And  there  the  little  pew- 
opener  had  showed  her  the  grave  of  Anna,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Spragg.  ;'  Who  long  declining  wedlock 
and  aspiring  above  her  sex  fought  under  her  brother 
with  arms  and  manly  attire  in  a  flagship  against  the 
French."  As  also  of  Mary  Astell,  her  contempo- 
rary, who  had  written  a  spirited  "  Essay  in  Defence 
of  the  Fair  Sex."  So  there  had  been  a  Suffrage 
Movement  as  far  back  as  in  the  days  of  Pope  and 
Swift. 

Returning  to  the  interior,  Joan  had  duly  admired 
the  Cheyne  monument,  but  had  been  unable  to  dis- 
guise her  amusement  before  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Col- 
vile,  whom  the  sculptor  had  represented  as  a  some- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  5 

what  impatient  lady,  refusing  to  await  the  day  of 
resurrection,  but  pushing  through  her  coffin  and 
starting  for  Heaven  in  her  grave-clothes.  Pausing 
in  front  of  the  Dacre  monument,  Joan  wondered  if 
the  actor  of  that  name,  who  had  committed  suicide 
in  Australia,  and  whose  London  address  she  remem- 
bered had  been  Dacre  House  just  round  the  corner, 
was  descended  from  the  family;  thinking  that,  if  so, 
it  would  give  an  up-to-date  touch  to  the  article.  She 
had  fully  decided  now  to  write  it.  But  Mary  Stop- 
perton  could  not  inform  her.  They  had  ended  up 
in  the  chapel  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  He,  too,  had 
"  given  up  things,"  including  his  head.  Though 
Mary  Stopperton,  siding  with  Father  Morris,  was 
convinced  he  had  now  got  it  back,  and  that  with  the 
remainder  of  his  bones  it  rested  in  the  tomb  before 
them. 

There,  the  little  pew-opener  had  left  her,  having 
to  show  the  early-comers  to  their  seats;  and  Joan  had 
found  an  out-of-the-way  pew  from  where  she  could 
command  a  view  of  the  whole  church.  They  were 
chiefly  poor  folk,  the  congregation;  with  here  and 
there  a  sprinkling  of  faded  gentility.  They  seemed 
in  keeping  with  the  place.  The  twilight  faded  and 
a  snuffy  old  man  shuffled  round  and  lit  the  gas. 

It  was  all  so  sweet  and  restful.  Religion  had 
never  appealed  to  her  before.  The  business-like 
service  in  the  bare  cold  chapel  where  she  had  sat 
swinging  her  feet  and  yawning  as  a  child  had  only 
repelled  her.  She  could  recall  her  father,  aloof  and 
awe-inspiring  in  his  Sunday  black,  passing  round  the 
bag.  Her  mother,  always  veiled,  sitting  beside  her, 
a  thin,  tall  woman  with  passionate  eyes  and  ever 


6  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

restless  hands;  the  women,  mostly  overdressed;  and 
the  sleek,  prosperous  men  trying  to  look  meek.  At 
school  and  at  Girton,  chapel,  which  she  had  attended 
no  oftener  than  she  was  obliged,  had  had  about  it 
the  same  atmosphere  of  chill  compulsion.  But  here 
was  poetry.  She  wondered  if,  after  all,  religion 
might  not  have  its  place  in  the  world  —  in  company 
with  the  other  arts.  It  would  be  a  pity  for  it  to  die 
out.  There  seemed  nothing  to  take  its  place.  All 
these  lovely  cathedrals,  these  dear  little  old  churches, 
that  for  centuries  had  been  the  focus  of  men's 
thoughts  and  aspirations.  The  harbour  lights,  illu- 
mining the  troubled  waters  of  their  lives.  What 
could  be  done  with  them?  They  could  hardly  be 
maintained  out  of  the  public  funds  as  mere  memen- 
toes of  the  past.  Besides,  there  were  too  many  of 
them.  The  taxpayer  would  naturally  grumble.  As 
Town  Halls,  Assembly  Rooms?  The  idea  was  un- 
thinkable. It  would  be  like  a  performance  of  Bar- 
num's  Circus  in  the  Coliseum  at  Rome.  Yes,  they 
would  disappear.  Though  not,  she  was  glad  to 
think,  in  her  time.  In  towns,  the  space  would  be 
required  for  other  buildings.  Here  and  there  some 
gradually  decaying  specimen  would  be  allowed  to  sur- 
vive, taking  its  place  with  the  feudal  castles  and 
walled  cities  of  the  Continent:  the  joy  of  the  Amer- 
ican tourist,  the  text-book  of  the  antiquary.  A  pity! 
Yes,  but  then  from  the  aesthetic  point  of  view  it  was 
a  pity  that  the  groves  of  ancient  Greece  had  ever  been 
cut  down  and  replanted  with  currant  bushes,  their  al- 
tars scattered;  that  the  stones  of  the  temples  of  Isis 
should  have  come  to  be  the  shelter  of  the  fisher  of  the 
Nile;  and  the  corn  wave  in  the  wind  above  the  buried 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  7 

shrines  of  Mexico.  All  these  dead  truths  that  from 
time  to  time  had  encumbered  the  living  world. 
Each  in  its  turn  had  had  to  be  cleared  away. 

And  yet  was  it  altogether  a  dead  truth:  this  pas- 
sionate belief  in  a  personal  God  who  had  ordered  all 
things  for  the  best:  who  could  be  appealed  to  for 
comfort,  for  help?  Might  it  not  be  as  good  an  ex- 
planation as  any  other  of  the  mystery  surrounding 
us?  It  had  been  so  universal.  She  was  not  sure 
where,  but  somewhere  she  had  come  across  an  an- 
alogy that  had  strongly  impressed  her.  '  The  fact 
that  a  man  feels  thirsty  —  though  at  the  time  he  may 
be  wandering  through  the  Desert  of  Sahara  — 
proves  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  is  water." 
Might  not  the  success  of  Christianity  in  responding 
to  human  needs  be  evidenced  in  its  favour?  The 
Love  of  God,  the  Fellowship  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  the 
Grace  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Were  not  all 
human  needs  provided  for  in  that  one  comprehen- 
sive promise :  the  desperate  need  of  man  to  be  con- 
vinced that  behind  all  the  seeming  muddle  was  a  lov- 
ing hand  guiding  towards  good;  the  need  of  the  soul 
in  its  loneliness  for  fellowship,  for  strengthening; 
the  need  of  man  in  his  weakness  for  the  kindly  grace 
of  human  sympathy,  of  human  example. 

And  then,  as  fate  would  have  it,  the  first  lesson 
happened  to  be  the  story  of  Jonah  and  the  whale. 
Half  a  dozen  shocked  faces  turned  suddenly  towards 
her  told  Joan  that  at  some  point  in  the  thrilling  his- 
tory she  must  unconsciously  have  laughed.  Fortu- 
nately she  was  alone  in  the  pew,  and  feeling  herself 
scarlet,  squeezed  herself  into  its  farthest  corner  and 
drew  down  her  veil. 


8  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

No,  it  would  have  to  go.  A  religion  that  sol- 
emnly demanded  of  grown  men  and  women  in  the 
twentieth  century  that  they  should  sit  and  listen  with 
reverential  awe  to  a  prehistoric  edition  of  "  Grimm's 
Fairy  Stories,"  including  Noah  and  his  ark,  the  ad- 
ventures of  Samson  and  Delilah,  the  conversations 
between  Balaam  and  his  ass,  and  culminating  in  what 
if  it  were  not  so  appallingly  wicked  an  idea  would 
be  the  most  comical  of  them  all:  the  conception  of 
an  elaborately  organized  Hell,  into  which  the  God 
of  the  Christians  plunged  his  creatures  for  all  eter- 
nity !  Of  what  use  was  such  a  religion  as  that  go- 
ing to  be  to  the  world  of  the  future? 

She  must  have  knelt  and  stood  mechanically,  for 
the  service  was  ended.  The  pulpit  was  occupied  by 
an  elderly  uninteresting-looking  man  with  a  trouble- 
some cough.  But  one  sentence  he  had  let  fall  had 
gripped  her  attention.  For  a  moment  she  could  not 
remember  it,  and  then  it  came  to  her:  "All  Roads 
lead  to  Calvary."  It  struck  her  as  rather  good. 
Perhaps  he  was  going  to  be  worth  listening  to. 
'  To  all  of  us,  sooner  or  later,"  he  was  saying, 
"  comes  a  choosing  of  two  ways  :  either  the  road  lead- 
ing to  success,  the  gratification  of  desires,  the  hon- 
our and  approval  of  our  fellow-men  —  or  the  path 
to  Calvary." 

And  then  he  had  wandered  off  into  a  maze  of  de- 
tail. The  tradesman,  dreaming  perhaps  of  becom- 
ing a  Whiteley,  having  to  choose  whether  to  go  for- 
ward or  remain  for  all  time  in  the  little  shop. 
The  statesman  —  should  he  abide  by  the  faith  that 
is  in  him  and  suffer  loss  of  popularity,  or  renounce 
his  God  and  enter  the  Cabinet?  The  artist,  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  9 

writer,  the  mere  labourer  —  there  were  too  many  of 
them.  A  few  well-chosen  examples  would  have  suf- 
ficed. And  then  that  irritating  cough ! 

And  yet  every  now  and  then  he  would  be  arrest- 
ing. In  his  prime,  Joan  felt,  he  must  have  been  a 
great  preacher.  Even  now,  decrepit  and  wheezy, 
he  was  capable  of  flashes  of  magnetism,  of  eloquence. 
The  passage  where  he  pictured  the  Garden  of  Geth- 
semane.  The  fair  Jerusalem,  only  hidden  from  us 
by  the  shadows.  So  easy  to  return  to.  Its  soft 
lights  shining  through  the  trees,  beckoning  to  us;  its 
mingled  voices  stealing  to  us  through  the  silence, 
whispering  to  us  of  its  well-remembered  ways,  its 
pleasant  places,  its  open  doorways,  friends  and  loved 
ones  waiting  for  us.  And  above,  the  rock-strewn 
Calvary:  and  crowning  its  summit,  clear  against  the 
starlit  sky,  the  cold,  dark  cross.  "  Not  perhaps  to 
us  the  bleeding  hands  and  feet,  but  to  all  the  bitter 
tears.  Our  Calvary  may  be  a  very  little  hill  com- 
pared with  the  mountains  where  Prometheus  suf- 
fered, but  to  us  it  is  steep  and  lonely." 

There  he  should  have  stopped.  It  would  have 
been  a  good  note  on  which  to  finish.  But  it  seemed 
there  was  another  point  he  wished  to  make.  Even 
to  the  sinner  Calvary  calls.  To  Judas  —  even  to  him 
the  gates  of  the  life-giving  Garden  of  Gethsemane 
had  not  been  closed.  "  With  his  thirty  pieces  of 
silver  he  could  have  stolen  away.  In  some  dis- 
tant crowded  city  of  the  Roman  Empire  have  lived 
unknown,  forgotten.  Life  still  had  its  pleasures, 
its  rewards.  To  him  also  had  been  given  the  choice. 
The  thirty  pieces  of  silver  that  had  meant  so  much 
to  him!  He  flings  them  at  the  feet  of  his  tempters. 


10  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

They  would  not  take  them  back.  He  rushes  out 
and  hangs  himself.  Shame  and  death.  With  his 
own  hands  he  will  build  his  own  cross,  none  to  help 
him.  He,  too  —  even  Judas,  climbs  his  Calvary. 
Enters  into  the  fellowship  of  those  who  through  all 
ages  have  trod  its  stony  pathway." 

Joan  waited  till  the  last  of  the  congregation  had 
disappeared,  and  then  joined  the  little  pew-opener 
who  was  waiting  to  close  the  doors.  Joan  asked 
her  what  she  had  thought  of  the  sermon,  but  Mary 
Stopperton,  being  a  little  deaf,  had  not  heard  it. 

"  It  was  quite  good  —  the  matter  of  it,"  Joan  told 
her.  "  All  Roads  lead  to  Calvary.  The  idea  is 
that  there  comes  a  time  to  all  of  us  when  we  have 
to  choose.  Whether,  like  your  friend  Carlyle,  we 
will  '  give  up  things  '  for  our  faith's  sake.  Or  go 
for  the  carriage  and  pair." 

Mary  Stopperton  laughed.  "  He  is  quite  right, 
dear,"  she  said.  "  It  does  seem  to  come,  and  it  is 
so  hard.  You  have  to  pray  and  pray  and  pray. 
And  even  then  we  cannot  always  do  it."  She 
touched  with  her  little  withered  fingers  Joan's  fine 
white  hand.  "  But  you  are  so  strong  and  brave," 
she  continued,  with  another  little  laugh.  "  It  won't 
be  so  difficult  for  you." 

It  was  not  until  well  on  her  way  home  that  Joan, 
recalling  the  conversation,  found  herself  smiling  at 
Mary  Stopperton's  literal  acceptation  of  the  argu- 
ment. At  the  time,  she  remembered,  the  shadow 
of  a  fear  had  passed  over  her. 

Mary  Stopperton  did  not  know  the  name  of  the 
preacher.  It  was  quite  common  for  chance  substi- 
tutes to  officiate  there,  especially  in  the  evening. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  11 

Joan  had  insisted  on  her  acceptance  of  a  shilling,  and 
had  made  a  note  of  her  address,  feeling  instinctively 
that  the  little  old  woman  would  "  come  in  useful  " 
from  a  journalistic  point  of  view. 

Shaking  hands  with  her,  she  had  turned  eastward, 
intending  to  walk  to  Sloane  Square,  and  there  take 
the  bus.  At  the  corner  of  Oakley  Street  she  over- 
took him.  He  was  evidently  a  stranger  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  was  peering  up  through  his  glasses 
to  see  the  name  of  the  street;  and  Joan  caught  sight 
of  his  face  beneath  a  gas  lamp. 

And  suddenly  it  came  to  her  that  it  was  a  face  she 
knew.  In  the  dim-lit  church  she  had  not  seen  him 
clearly.  He  was  still  peering  upward.  Joan  stole 
another  glance.  Yes,  she  had  met  him  somewhere. 
He  was  very  changed,  quite  different,  but  she  was 
sure  of  it.  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  She  must  have 
been  quite  a  child. 


CHAPTER  II 

ONE  of  Joan's  earliest  recollections  was  the  pic- 
ture of  herself  standing  before  the  high  cheval 
glass  in  her  mother's  dressing-room.  Her  clothes 
lay  scattered  far  and  wide,  falling  where  she  had 
flung  them;  not  a  shred  of  any  kind  of  covering  was 
left  to  her.  She  must  have  been  very  small,  for  she 
could  remember  looking  up  and  seeing  high  above 
her  head  the  two  brass  knobs  by  which  the  glass  was 
fastened  to  its  frame.  Suddenly,  out  of  the  upper 
portion  of  the  glass,  there  looked  a  scared  red  face. 
It  hovered  there  a  moment,  and  over  it  in  swift  suc- 
cession there  passed  the  expressions,  first  of  petrified 
amazement,  secondly  of  shocked  indignation,  and 
thirdly  of  righteous  wrath.  And  then  it  swooped 
down  upon  her,  and  the  image  in  the  glass  became  a 
confusion  of  small  naked  arms  and  legs  mingled 
with  green  cotton  gloves  and  purple  bonnet  strings. 
'You  young  imp  of  Satan!"  demanded  Mrs. 
Munday  —  her  feelings  of  outraged  virtue  exagger- 
ating perhaps  her  real  sentiments.  "  What  are  you 
doing?  " 

"  Go  away.  I'se  looking  at  myself,"  had  ex- 
plained Joan,  struggling  furiously  to  regain  the  glass. 

"  But  where  are  your  clothes?  "  was  Mrs.  Mun- 
day's  wonder. 

"  I'se  tooked  them  off,"  explained  Joan.  A  piece 
of  information  that  really,  all  things  considered, 
seemed  unnecessary. 

12 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  13 

"  But  can't  you  see  yourself,  you  wicked  child, 
without  stripping  yourself  as  naked  as  you  were 
born?" 

"  No,"  maintained  Joan  stoutly.  "  I  hate 
clothes."  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  didn't,  even  in 
those  early  days.  On  the  contrary,  one  of  her  fav- 
ourite amusements  was  "  dressing  up."  This  sud- 
den overmastering  desire  to  arrive  at  the  truth  about 
herself  had  been  a  new  conceit. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  myself.  Clothes  ain't  me,"  was 
all  she  would  or  could  vouchsafe;  and  Mrs.  Munday 
had  shook  her  head,  and  had  freely  confessed  that 
there  were  things  beyond  her  and  that  Joan  was  one 
of  them;  and  had  succeeded,  partly  by  force,  partly 
by  persuasion,  in  restoring  to  Joan  once  more  the 
semblance  of  a  Christian  child. 

It  was  Mrs.  Munday,  poor  soul,  who  all  uncon- 
sciously had  planted  the  seeds  of  disbelief  in  Joan's 
mind.  Mrs.  Munday's  God,  from  Joan's  point  of 
view,  was  a  most  objectionable  personage.  He 
talked  a  lot  —  or  rather  Mrs.  Munday  talked  for 
Him  —  about  His  love  for  little  children.  But  it 
seemed  He  only  loved  them  when  they  were  good. 
Joan  was  under  no  delusions  about  herself.  If  those 
were  His  terms,  well,  then,  so  far  as  she  could  see, 
He  wasn't  going  to  be  of  much  use  to  her.  Besides, 
if  He  hated  naughty  children,  why  did  He  make  them 
naughty?  At  a  moderate  estimate  quite  half  Joan's 
wickedness,  so  it  seemed  to  Joan,  came  to  her  unbid- 
den. Take  for  example  that  self-examination  be- 
fore the  cheval  glass.  The  idea  had  come  into  her 
mind.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  was 
wicked.  If,  as  Mrs.  Munday  explained,  it  was  the 


14  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Devil  that  had  whispered  it  to  her,  then  what  did 
God  mean  by  allowing  the  Devil  to  go  about  per- 
suading little  girls  to  do  indecent  things?  God 
could  do  everything.  Why  didn't  He  smash  the 
Devil?  It  seemed  to  Joan  a  mean  trick,  look  at  it 
how  you  would.  Fancy  leaving  a  little  girl  to  fight 
the  Devil  all  by  herself.  And  then  get  angry  be- 
cause the  Devil  won !  Joan  came  to  cordially  dislike 
Mrs.  Munday's  God. 

Looking  back  it  was  easy  enough  to  smile,  but  the 
agony  of  many  nights  when  she  had  lain  awake  for 
hours  battling  with  her  childish  terrors  had  left  a 
burning  sense  of  anger  in  Joan's  heart.  Poor 
mazed,  bewildered  Mrs.  Munday,  preaching  the 
eternal  damnation  of  the  wicked  —  who  had  loved 
her,  who  had  only  thought  to  do  her  duty,  the  blame 
was  not  hers.  But  that  a  religion  capable  of  inflict- 
ing such  suffering  upon  the  innocent  should  still  be 
preached;  maintained  by  the  State!  That  its  edu- 
cated followers  no  longer  believed  in  a  physical  Hell, 
that  its  more  advanced  clergy  had  entered  into  a  con- 
spiracy of  silence  on  the  subject  was  no  answer. 
The  great  mass  of  the  people  were  not  educated. 
Official  Christendom  in  every  country  still  preached 
the  everlasting  torture  of  the  majority  of  the  human 
race  as  a  well  thought  out  part  of  the  Creator's 
scheme.  No  leader  had  been  bold  enough  to  come 
forward  and  denounce  it  as  an  insult  to  his  God.  As 
one  grew  older,  kindly  mother  Nature,  ever  seeking 
to  ease  the  self-inflicted  burdens  of  her  foolish  brood, 
gave  one  forgetfulness,  insensibility.  The  con- 
demned criminal  puts  the  thought  of  the  gallows 
away  from  him  as  long  as  may  be :  eats,  and  sleeps 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  15 

and  even  jokes.  Man's  soul  grows  pachydermoid. 
But  the  children!  Their  sensitive  brains  exposed 
to  every  cruel  breath.  No  philosophic  doubt  per- 
mitted to  them.  No  learned  disputation  on  the  re- 
lationship between  the  literal  and  the  allegorical  for 
the  easing  of  their  frenzied  fears.  How  many  mil- 
lion tiny  white-faced  figures  scattered  over  Christian 
Europe  and  America,  stared  out  each  night  into  a 
vision  of  black  horror;  how  many  million  tiny  hands 
clutched  wildly  at  the  bedclothes.  The  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Children,  if  they  had 
done  their  duty,  would  have  prosecuted  before  now 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Of  course  she  would  go  to  Hell.  As  a  special 
kindness  some  generous  relative  had,  on  Joan's 
seventh  birthday,  given  her  an  edition  of  Dante's 
"  Inferno,"  with  illustrations  by  Dore.  From  it  she 
was  able  to  form  some  notion  of  what  her  eternity 
was  likely  to  be.  And  God  all  the  while  up  in  His 
Heaven,  surrounded  by  that  glorious  band  of  praise- 
trumpeting  angels,  watching  her  out  of  the  corner  of 
His  eye.  Her  courage  saved  her  from  despair. 
Defiance  came  to  her  aid.  Let  Him  send  her  to 
Hell !  She  was  not  going  to  pray  to  Him  and  make 
up  to  Him.  He  was  a  wicked  God.  Yes,  He  was: 
a  cruel,  wicked  God.  And  one  night  she  told  Him 
so  to  His  face. 

It  had  been  a  pretty  crowded  day,  even  for  so 
busy  a  sinner  as  little  Joan.  It  was  springtime,  and 
they  had  gone  into  the  country  for  her  mother's 
health.  Maybe  it  was  the  season :  a  stirring  of  the 
human  sap,  conducing  to  that  feeling  of  being  "  too 
big  for  one's  boots,"  as  the  saying  is.  A  dangerous 


16  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

period  of  the  year.  Indeed,  on  the  principle  that 
prevention  is  better  than  cure,  Mrs.  Munday  had 
made  it  a  custom  during  April  and  May  to  admin- 
ister to  Joan  a  cooling  mixture;  but  on  this  occasion 
had  unfortunately  come  away  without  it.  Joan, 
dressed  for  use  rather  than  show,  and  without  either 
shoes  or  stockings,  had  stolen  stealthily  downstairs: 
something  seemed  to  be  calling  to  her.  Silently  — 
"  like  a  thief  in  the  night,"  to  adopt  Mrs.  Munday's 
metaphor  —  had  slipped  the  heavy  bolts ;  had  joined 
the  thousand  creatures  of  the  wood;  had  danced  and 
leapt  and  shouted;  had  behaved,  in  short,  more  as  if 
she  had  been  a  Pagan  nymph  than  a  happy  English 
child.  She  had  regained  the  house  unnoticed,  as  she 
thought,  the  Devil,  no  doubt,  assisting  her;  and  had 
hidden  her  wet  clothes  in  the  bottom  of  a  mighty 
chest.  Deceitfulness  in  her  heart,  she  had  greeted 
Mrs.  Munday  in  sleepy  tones  from  beneath  the 
sheets;  and  before  breakfast,  assailed  by  suspicious 
questions,  had  told  a  deliberate  lie.  Later  in  the 
morning,  during  an  argument  with  an  active  young 
pig  who  was  willing  enough  to  play  at  Red  Riding 
Hood  so  far  as  eating  things  out  of  a  basket  was 
concerned,  but  who  would  not  wear  a  night-cap,  she 
had  used  a  wicked  word.  In  the  afternoon  she 
"  might  have  killed  "  the  farmer's  only  son  and  heir. 
They  had  had  a  row.  In  one  of  those  sad  lapses 
from  the  higher  Christian  standards  into  which 
Satan  was  always  egging  her,  she  had  pushed  him; 
and  he  had  tumbled  head  over  heels  into  the  horse- 
pond.  The  reason,  that  instead  of  lying  there  and 
drowning  he  had  got  up  and  walked  back  to  the 
house  howling  fit  to  wake  the  Seven  Sleepers,  was 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  17 

that  God,  watching  over  little  children,  had  ar- 
ranged for  the  incident  taking  place  on  that  side  of 
the  pond  where  it  was  shallow.  Had  the  scrim- 
mage occurred  on  the  opposite  bank,  beneath  which 
the  water  was  much  deeper,  Joan  in  all  probability 
would  have  had  murder  on  her  soul.  It  seemed  to 
Joan  that  if  God,  all-powerful  and  all-foreseeing, 
had  been  so  careful  in  selecting  the  site,  He  might 
with  equal  ease  have  prevented  the  row  from  ever 
taking  place.  Why  couldn't  the  little  beast  have 
been  guided  back  from  school  through  the  orchard, 
much  the  shorter  way,  instead  of  being  brought 
round  by  the  yard,  so  as  to  come  upon  her  at  a  mo- 
ment when  she  was  feeling  a  bit  short-tempered,  to 
put  it  mildly?  And  why  had  God  allowed  him  to 
call  her  "  Carrots  "  ?  That  Joan  should  have  "  put 
it  "  this  way,  instead  of  going  down  on  her  knees 
and  thanking  the  Lord  for  having  saved  her  from  a 
crime,  was  proof  of  her  inborn  evil  disposition.  In 
the  evening  was  reached  the  culminating  point.  Just 
before  going  to  bed  she  had  murdered  old  George 
the  cowman.  For  all  practical  purposes  she  might 
just  as  well  have  been  successful  in  drowning  Wil- 
liam Augustus  earlier  in  the  day.  It  seemed  to  be 
one  of  those  things  that  had  to  be.  Mr.  Horn- 
flower  still  lived,  it  was  true,  but  that  was  not  Joan's 
fault.  Joan,  standing  in  white  nightgown  beside 
her  bed,  everything  around  her  breathing  of  inno- 
cence and  virtue :  the  spotless  bedclothes,  the  chintz 
curtains,  the  white  hyacinths  upon  the  window-ledge, 
Joan's  Bible,  a  present  from  Aunt  Susan;  her  prayer- 
book,  handsomely  bound  in  calf,  a  present  from 
Grandpapa,  upon  their  little  table;  Mrs.  Munday  in 


18  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

evening  black  and  cameo  brooch  (pale  red  with  tomb 
and  weeping  willow  in  white  relief)  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  the  departed  Mr.  Munday  —  Joan  stand- 
ing there  erect,  with  pale,  passionate  face,  defying 
all  these  aids  to  righteousness,  had  deliberately 
wished  Mr.  Hornflower  dead.  Old  George  Horn- 
flower  it  was  who,  unseen  by  her,  had  passed  her  that 
morning  in  the  wood.  Grumpy  old  George  it  was 
who  had  overheard  the  wicked  word  with  which  she 
had  cursed  the  pig;  who  had  met  William  Augustus 
on  his  emergence  from  the  pond.  To  Mr.  George 
Hornflower,  the  humble  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
Providence,  helping  her  towards  possible  salvation, 
she  ought  to  have  been  grateful.  And  instead  of 
that  she  had  flung  into  the  agonized  face  of  Mrs. 
Munday  these  awful  words: 

"  I  wish  he  was  dead!  " 

"  He  who  in  his  heart  — : — "  there  was  verse  and 
chapter  for  it.  Joan  was  a  murderess.  Just  as 
well,  so  far  as  Joan  was  concerned,  might  she  have 
taken  a  carving-knife  and  stabbed  Deacon  Horn- 
flower  to  the  heart. 

Joan's  prayers  that  night,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  Mrs.  Munday's  sobs,  had  a  hopeless  air  of  un- 
reality about  them.  Mrs.  Munday's  kiss  was  cold. 

How  long  Joan  lay  and  tossed  upon  her  little  bed 
she  could  not  tell.  Somewhere  about  the  middle  of 
the  night,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her,  the  frenzy  seized 
her.  Flinging  the  bedclothes  away  she  rose  to  her 
feet.  It  is  difficult  to  stand  upon  a  spring  mattress, 
but  Joan  kept  her  balance.  Of  course  He  was  there 
in  the  room  with  her.  God  was  everywhere,  spy- 
ing upon  her.  She  could  distinctly  hear  His  mea- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  19 

sured  breathing.  Face  to  face  with  Him,  she  told 
Him  what  she  thought  of  Him.  She  told  Him  He 
was  a  cruel,  wicked  God. 

There  are  no  Victoria  Crosses  for  sinners,  or 
surely  little  Joan  that  night  would  have  earned  it. 
It  was  not  lack  of  imagination  that  helped  her  cour- 
age. God  and  she  alone,  in  the  darkness.  He  with 
all  the  forces  of  the  Universe  behind  Him.  He 
armed  with  His  eternal  pains  and  penalties,  and 
eight-year-old  Joan :  the  creature  that  He  had  made  in 
His  Own  Image  that  He  could  torture  and  destroy. 
Hell  yawned  beneath  her,  but  it  had  to  be  said. 
Somebody  ought  to  tell  Him. 

1  You  are  a  wicked  God,"  Joan  told  Him.     "  Yes, 
You  are.     A  cruel,  wicked  God." 

And  then  that  she  might  not  see  the  walls  of  the 
room  open  before  her,  hear  the  wild  laughter  of  the 
thousand  devils  that  were  coming  to  bear  her  off, 
she  threw  herself  down,  her  face  hidden  in  the  pil- 
low, and  clenched  her  hands  and  waited. 

And  suddenly  there  burst  a  song.  It  was  like 
nothing  Joan  had  ever  heard  before.  So  clear  and 
loud  and  near  that  all  the  night  seemed  filled  with 
harmony.  It  sank  into  a  tender  yearning  cry  throb- 
bing with  passionate  desire;  and  then  it  rose  again 
in  thrilling  ecstasy:  a  song  of  hope,  of  victory. 

Joan,  trembling,  stole  from  her  bed  and  drew 
aside  the  blind.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
the  stars  and  the  dim  shape  of  the  hills.  But  still 
that  song,  filling  the  air  with  its  wild,  triumphant 
melody. 

Years  afterwards,  listening  to  the  overture  to 
Tannhatiser,  there  came  back  to  her  the  memory  of 


20  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

that  night.  Ever  through  the  mad  Satanic  dis- 
cords she  could  hear,  now  faint,  now  conquering, 
the  Pilgrims'  onward  march.  So  through  the  jan- 
gled discords,  of  the  world  one  heard  the  Song  of 
Life.  Through  the  dim  aeons  of  man's  savage  in- 
fancy; through  the  centuries  of  bloodshed  and  of 
horror;  through  the  dark  ages  of  tyranny  and  super- 
stition; through  wrong,  through  cruelty,  through 
hate;  heedless  of  doom,  heedless  of  death,  still  the 
nightingale's  song:  "I  love  you.  I  love  you. 
love  you.  We  will  build  a  nest.  We  will  rear  our 
brood.  I  love  you.  I  love  you.  Life  shall  not 
die." 

Joan  crept  back  into  bed.  A  new  wonder  had 
come  to  her.  And  from  that  night  Joan's  belief  in 
Mrs.  Munday's  God  began  to  fade,  circumstances 
helping. 

Firstly  there  was  the  great  event  of  going  to 
school.  She  was  glad  to  get  away  from  home,  a 
massive,  stiffly  furnished  house  in  a  wealthy  suburb 
of  Liverpool.  Her  mother,  since  she  could  remem- 
ber, had  been  an  invalid,  rarely  leaving  her  bedroom 
till  the  afternoon.  Her  father,  the  owner  of  large 
engineering  works,  she  only  saw,  as  a  rule,  at  dinner- 
time, when  she  would  come  down  to  dessert.  It 
had  been  different  when  she  was  very  young,  before 
her  mother  had  been  taken  ill.  Then  she  had  been 
more  with  them  both.  She  had  dim  recollections  of 
her  father  playing  with  her,  pretending  to  be  a  bear 
and  growling  at  her  from  behind  the  sofa.  And 
then  he  would  seize  and  hug  her  and  they  would  both 
laugh,  while  he  tossed  her  into  the  air  and  caught 
her.  He  had  looked  so  big  and  handsome.  All 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  21 

through  her  childhood  there  had  been  the  desire 
to  recreate  those  days,  to  spring  into  the  air  and 
catch  her  arms  about  his  neck.  She  could  have 
loved  him  dearly  if  he  had  only  let  her.  Once,  seek- 
ing explanation,  she  had  opened  her  heart  a  little  to 
Mrs.  Munday.  It  was  disappointment,  Mrs.  Mun- 
day  thought,  that  she  had  not  been  a  boy;  and  with 
that  Joan  had  to  content  herself.  Maybe  also  her 
mother's  illness  had  helped  to  sadden  him.  Or  per- 
haps it  was  mere  temperament,  as  she  argued  to 
herself  later,  for  which  they  were  both  responsible. 
Those  little  tricks  of  coaxing,  of  tenderness,  of  wil- 
fulness,  by  means  of  which  other  girls  wriggled  their 
way  so  successfully  into  a  warm  nest  of  cosy  affec- 
tion: she  had  never  been  able  to  employ  them.  Be- 
neath her  self-confidence  was  a  shyness,  an  immov- 
able reserve  that  had  always  prevented  her  from 
expressing  her  emotions.  She  had  inherited  it, 
doubtless  enough,  from  him.  Perhaps  one  day,  be- 
tween them,  they  would  break  down  the  barrier,  the 
strength  of  which  seemed  to  lie  in  its  very  flimsiness, 
its  impalpability. 

And  then  during  college  vacations,  returning  home 
with  growing  notions  and  views  of  her  own,  she  had 
found  herself  so  often  in  antagonism  with  him.  His 
fierce  puritanism,  so  opposed  to  all  her  enthusiasms. 
Arguing  with  him,  she  might  almost  have  been  listen- 
ing to  one  of  his  Cromwellian  ancestors  risen  from 
the  dead.  There  had  been  disputes  between  him 
and  his  work-people,  and  Joan  had  taken  the  side 
of  the  men.  He  had  not  been  angry  with  her,  but 
coldly  contemptuous.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
if  he  had  only  made  a  sign!  She  wanted  to  fling 


22  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

herself  crying  into  his  arms  and  shake  him  —  make 
him  listen  to  her  wisdom,  sitting  on  his  knee  with  her 
hands  clasped  round  his  neck.  He  was  not  really 
intolerant  and  stupid.  That  had  been  proved  by 
his  letting  her  go  to  a  Church  of  England  school. 
Her  mother  had  expressed  no  wish.  It  was  he  who 
had  selected  it. 

Of  her  mother  she  had  always  stood  somewhat  in 
fear,  never  knowing  when  the  mood  of  passionate 
affection  would  give  place  to  a  chill  aversion  that 
seemed  almost  like  hate.  Perhaps  it  had  been  good 
for  her,  so  she  told  herself  in  after  years,  her 
lonely,  unguided  childhood.  It  had  forced  her  to 
think  and  act  for  herself.  At  school  she  reaped  the 
benefit.  Self-reliant,  confident,  original,  leadership 
was  granted  to  her  as  a  natural  prerogative.  Na- 
ture had  helped  her.  Nowhere  does  a  young  girl 
rule  more  supremely  by  reason  of  her  beauty  than 
among  her  fellows.  Joan  soon  grew  accustomed 
to  having  her  boots  put  on  and  taken  off  for  her; 
all  her  needs  of  service  anticipated  by  eager  slaves, 
contending  with  one  another  for  the  privilege.  By 
giving  a  command,  by  bestowing  a  few  moments  of 
her  conversation,  it  was  within  her  power  to  make 
some  small  adoring  girl  absurdly  happy  for  the  rest 
of  the  day;  while  her  displeasure  would  result  in 
tears,  in  fawning  pleadings  for  forgiveness.  The 
homage  did  not  spoil  her.  Rather  it  helped  to  de- 
velop her.  She  accepted  it  from  the  beginning  as  in 
the  order  of  things.  Power  had  been  given  to  her. 
It  was  her  duty  to  see  to  it  that  she  did  not  use  it 
capriciously,  for  her  own  gratification.  No  con- 
scientious youthful  queen  could  have  been  more  care- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  23 

ful  in  the  distribution  of  her  favours  —  that  they 
should  be  for  the  encouragement  of  the  deserving, 
the  reward  of  virtue;  more  sparing  of  her  frowns, 
reserving  them  for  the  rectification  of  error. 

At  Girton  it  was  more  by  force  of  will,  of  brain, 
that  she  had  to  make  her  position.  There  was  more 
competition.  Joan  welcomed  it,  as  giving  more  zest 
to  life.  But  even  there  her  beauty  was  by  no  means 
a  negligible  quantity.  Clever,  brilliant  young 
women,  accustomed  to  sweep  aside  all  opposition 
with  a  blaze  of  rhetoric,  found  themselves  to  their 
irritation  sitting  in  front  of  her  silent,  not  so  much 
listening  to  her  as  looking  at  her.  It  puzzled  them 
for  a  time.  Because  a  girl's  features  are  classical 
and  her  colouring  attractive,  surely  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  value  of  her  political  views?  Until 
one  of  them  discovered  by  chance  that  it  has. 

"Well,  what  does  Beauty  think  about  it?"  this 
one  had  asked,  laughing.  She  had  arrived  at  the 
end  of  a  discussion  just  as  Joan  was  leaving  the  room. 
And  then  she  gave  a  long  low  whistle,  feeling  that 
she  had  stumbled  upon  the  explanation.  Beauty, 
that  mysterious  force  that  from  the  date  of  creation 
has  ruled  the  world,  what  does  It  think?  Dumb, 
passive,  as  a  rule,  exercising  its  influence  uncon- 
sciously. But  if  it  should  become  intelligent,  active ! 
A  Philosopher  has  dreamed  of  the  vast  influence  that 
could  be  exercised  by  a  dozen  sincere  men  acting  in 
unity.  Suppose  a  dozen  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  the  world  could  form  themselves  into  a 
league !  Joan  found  them  late  in  the  evening  still 
discussing  it. 

Her  mother  died  suddenly  during  her  last  term, 


24  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

and  Joan  hurried  back  to  attend  the  funeral.     Her 
father   was    out   when    she    reached   home.     Joan 
changed  her  travel-dusty  clothes,  and  then  went  into 
the  room  where  her  mother  lay,  and  closed  the  door. 
She  must  have  been  a  beautiful  woman.     Now  that 
the  fret  and  the  restlessness  had  left  her  it  had  come 
back   to   her.     The   passionate    eyes   were    closed. 
Joan  kissed  the  marble  lids,  and  drawing  a  chair  to 
the  bedside,  sat  down.     It  grieved  her  that  she  had 
never  loved  her  mother —  not  as  one  ought  to  love 
one's  mother,  unquestioningly,  unreasoningly,   as  a 
natural  instinct.     For  a  moment  a  strange  thought 
came  to  her,  and  swiftly,  almost  guiltily,  she  stole 
across,  and  drawing  back  a  corner  of  the  blind,  ex- 
amined closely  her  own  features  in  the  glass,  com- 
paring them  with  the  face  of  the  dead  woman,  thus 
called  upon  to  be  a  silent  witness  for  or  against  the 
living.     Joan  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  and  let  fall  the 
blind.     There  could  be  no  misreading  the  evidence. 
Death  had  smoothed  away  the  lines,   given  back 
youth.     It  was  almost  uncanny,  the  likeness  between 
them.     It  might  have  been  her  drowned  sister  lying 
there.     And  they  had  never  known  one  another. 
Had  this  also  been  temperament  again,  keeping  them 
apart?     Why  did  it  imprison  us  each  one  as  in  a 
moving  cell,  so  that  we  never  could  stretch  out  our 
arms  to  one  another,  except  when  at  rare  intervals 
Love  or  Death  would  unlock  for  a  while  the  key? 
Impossible  that  two  beings  should  have  been  so  alike 
in  feature  without  being  more  or  less  alike  in  thought 
and  feeling.     Whose  fault  had  it  been?     Surely  her 
own;  she  was  so  hideously  calculating.     Even  Mrs. 
Munday,  because  the  old  lady  had  been  fond  of  her 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  25 

and  had  shown  it,  had  been  of  more  service  to  her, 
more  a  companion,  had  been  nearer  to  her  than  her 
mother.  In  self-excuse  she  recalled  the  two  or  three 
occasions  when  she  had  tried  to  win  her  mother. 
But  fate  seemed  to  have  decreed  that  their  moods 
should  never  correspond.  Her  mother's  sudden 
fierce  outbursts  of  love,  when  she  would  be  jealous, 
exacting,  almost  cruel,  had  frightened  her  when  she 
was  a  child,  and  later  on  had  bored  her.  Other 
daughters  would  have  shown  patience,  unselfishness, 
but  she  had  always  been  so  self-centred.  Why  had 
she  never  fallen  in  love  like  other  girls?  There  had 
been  a  boy  at  Brighton  when  she  was  at  school  there 
—  quite  a  nice  boy,  who  had  written  her  wildly  ex- 
travagant love-letters.  It  must  have  cost  him  half 
his  pocket-money  to  get  them  smuggled  in  to  her. 
Why  had  she  only  been  amused  at  them?  They 
might  have  been  beautiful  if  only  one  had  read  them 
with  sympathy.  One  day  he  had  caught  her  alone 
on  the  Downs.  Evidently  he  had  made  it  his  busi- 
ness to  hang  about  every  day  waiting  for  some  such 
chance.  He  had  gone  down  on  his  knees  and  kissed 
her  feet,  and  had  been  so  abject,  so  pitiful  that  she 
had  given  him  some  flowers  she  was  wearing.  And 
he  had  sworn  to  dedicate  the  rest  of  his  life  to  being 
worthy  of  her  condescension.  Poor  lad !  She  won- 
dered —  for  the  first  time  since  that  afternoon  — 
what  had  become  of  him.  There  had  been  others; 
a  third  cousin  who  still  wrote  to  her  from  Egypt, 
sending  her  presents  that  perhaps  he  could  ill  afford, 
and  whom  she  answered  about  once  a  year.  And 
promising  young  men  she  had  met  at  Cambridge, 
ready,  she  felt  instinctively,  to  fall  down  and  wor- 


26  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ship  her.  And  all  the  use  she  had  had  for  them  was 
to  convert  them  to  her  views  —  a  task  so  easy  as  to 
be  quite  uninteresting  —  with  a  vague  idea  that  they 
might  come  in  handy  in  the  future,  when  she  might 
need  help  in  shaping  that  world  of  the  future.^ 

Only  once  had  she  ever  thought  of  marriage. 
And  that  was  in  favour  of  a  middle-aged,  rheumatic 
widower  with  three  children,  a  professor  of  chem- 
istry, very  learned  and  justly  famous.  For  about 
a  month  she  had  thought  herself  in  love.  She  pic- 
tured herself  devoting  her  life  to  him,  rubbing  his 
poor  left  shoulder  where  it  seemed  he  suffered  most, 
and  brushing  his  picturesque  hair,  inclined  to  grey. 
Fortunately  his  eldest  daughter  was  a  young  woman 
of  resource,  or  the  poor  gentleman,  naturally  car- 
ried off  his  feet  by  this  adoration  of  youth  and 
beauty,  might  have  made  an  ass  of  himself.  But 
apart  from  this  one  episode  she  had  reached  the  age 
of  twenty-three  heart-whole. 

She  rose  and  replaced  the  chair.  And  suddenly  a 
wave  of  pity  passed  over  her  for  the  dead  woman, 
who  had  always  seemed  so  lonely  in  the  great  stiffly- 
furnished  house,  and  the  tears  came. 

She  was  glad  she  had  been  able  to  cry.  She  had 
always  hated  herself  for  her  lack  of  tears;  it  was  so 
unwomanly.  Even  as  a  child  she  had  rarely  cried. 

Her  father  had  always  been  very  tender,  very  pa- 
tient towards  her  mother,  but  she  had  not  expected 
to  find  him  so  changed.  He  had  aged  and  his  shoul- 
ders drooped.  She  had  been  afraid  that  he  would 
want  her  to  stay  with  him  and  take  charge  of  the 
house.  It  had  worried  her  considerably.  It  would 
be  so  difficult  to  refuse,  and  yet  she  would  have  to. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  27 

But  when  he  never  broached  the  subject  she  was  hurt. 
He  had  questioned  her  about  her  plans  the  day  after 
the  funeral,  and  had  seemed  only  anxious  to  assist 
them.  She  proposed  continuing  at  Cambridge  till 
the  end  of  the  term.  She  had  taken  her  degree  the 
year  before.  After  that,  she  would  go  to  London 
and  commence  her  work. 

"  Let  me  know  what  allowance  you  would  like  me 
to  make  you,  when  you  have  thought  it  out.  Things 
are  not  what  they  were  at  the  works,  but  there  will 
always  be  enough  to  keep  you  in  comfort,"  he  had 
told  her.  She  had  fixed  it  there  and  then  at  two  hun- 
dred a  year.  She  would  not  take  more,  and  that 
only  until  she  was  in  a  position  to  keep  herself. 

"  I  want  to  prove  to  myself,"  she  explained,  "  that 
I  am  capable  of  earning  my  own  living.  I  am  going 
down  into  the  market-place.  If  I'm  no  good,  if  I 
can't  take  care  of  even  one  poor  woman,  I'll  come 
back  and  ask  you  to  keep  me."  She  was  sitting  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  laughing,  she  drew  his  head 
towards  her  and  pressed  it  against  her.  "  If  I  suc- 
ceed, if  I  am  strong  enough  to  fight  the  world  for  my- 
self and  win,  that  will  mean  I  am  strong  enough 
and  clever  enough  to  help  others." 

"  I  am  only  at  the  end  of  a  journey  when  you  need 
me,"  he  had  answered,  and  they  had  kissed.  And 
next  morning  she  returned  to  her  own  life. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  at  Madge  Singleton's  rooms  that  the  details 
of  Joan's  entry  into  journalistic  London  were 
arranged.  "  The  Coming  of  Beauty,"  was  Flora 
Lessing's  phrase  for  designating  the  event.  Flora 
Lessing,  known  among  her  associates  as  "  Flossie," 
was  the  girl  who  at  Cambridge  had  accidentally  stum- 
bled upon  the  explanation  of  Joan's  influence.  In 
appearance  she  was  of  the  Fluffy  Ruffles  type,  with 
childish  innocent  eyes,  and  the  "  unruly  curls  "  be- 
loved of  the  Family  Herald  novelist.  At  the  first, 
these  latter  had  been  the  result  of  a  habit  of  late 
rising  and  consequent  hurried  toilet  operations;  but 
on  the  discovery  that  for  the  purposes  of  her  profes- 
sion they  possessed  a  market  value  they  had  been 
sedulously  cultivated.  Editors  of  the  old  order  had 
ridiculed  the  idea  of  her  being  of  any  use  to  them, 
when  two  years  previously  she  had,  by  combination 
of  cheek  and  patience,  forced  herself  into  their  sanc- 
tum; had  patted  her  paternally  upon  her  generally 
ungloved  hand,  and  told  her  to  go  back  home  and  get 
some  honest,  worthy  young  man  to  love  and  cherish 
her. 

It  was  Carleton  of  the  Daily  Dispatch  group  who 
had  first  divined  her  possibilities.  With  a  swift 
glance  on  his  way  through,  he  had  picked  her  out 
from  a  line  of  depressed-looking  men  and  women 
ranged  against  the  wall  of  the  dark  entrance  passage ; 
and  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers  had  beckoned  her  to 

28 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  29 

follow  him.  Striding  in  front  of  her  up  to  his  room, 
he  had  pointed  to  a  chair  and  had  left  her  sitting 
there  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  while  he  held 
discussion  with  a  stream  of  subordinates,  managers 
and  editors  of  departments,  who  entered  and  de- 
parted one  after  another,  evidently  in  prearranged 
order.  All  of  them  spoke  rapidly  without  ever  di- 
gressing by  a  single  word  from  the  point,  giving  her 
the  impression  of  their  speeches  having  been  re- 
hearsed beforehand. 

Carleton  himself  never  interrupted  them.  In- 
deed, one  might  have  thought  he  was  not  listening, 
so  engrossed  he  appeared  to  be  in  the  pile  of  letters 
and  telegrams  that  lay  waiting  for  him  on  his  desk. 
When  they  had  finished  he  would  ask  them  ques- 
tions, still  with  his  attention  fixed  apparently  upon 
the  paper  in  his  hand.  Then,  looking  up  for  the  first 
time,  he  would  run  off  curt  instructions,  much  in  the 
tone  of  a  Commander-in-Chief  giving  orders  for  an 
immediate  assault;  and,  finishing  abruptly,  return  to 
his  correspondence.  When  the  last,  as  it  transpired, 
had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  he  swung  his  chair 
round  and  faced  her. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  Wasting  my  time  and  money  hanging  about 
newspaper  offices,  listening  to  silly  talk  from  old  fos- 
sils," she  told  him. 

"  And  having  learned  that  respectable  journalism 
has  no  use  for  brains,  you  come  to  me,"  he  answered 
her.  "  What  do  you  think  you  can  do?  " 

"  Anything  that  can  be  done  with  a  pen  and  ink," 
she  told  him. 

"  Interviewing?  "  he  suggested. 


30  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  I've  always  been  considered  good  at  asking  awk- 
ward questions,"  she  assured  him. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  I'll  give  you  five  min- 
utes," he  said.  "  Interview  me." 

She  moved  to  a  chair  beside  the  desk,  and,  opening 
her  bag,  took  out  a  writing-block. 

"What  are  your  principles?"  she  asked  him. 
"  Have  you  got  any?  " 

He  looked  at  her  sharply  across  the  corner  of  the 
desk. 

"  I  mean,"  she  continued,  "  to  what  fundamental 
rule  of  conduct  do  you  attribute  your  success?  " 

She  leant  forward,  fixing  her  eyes  on  him. 
"  Don't  tell  me,"  she  persisted,  "  that  you  had  none. 
That  life  is  all  just  mere  blind  chance.  Think  of  the 
young  men  who  are  hanging  on  your  answer.  Won't 
you  send  them  a  message?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  musingly.  "  It's  your  baby 
face  that  does  the  trick.  In  the  ordinary  way  I 
should  have  known  you  were  pulling  my  leg,  and 
have  shown  you  the  door.  As  it  was,  I  felt  half  in- 
clined for  the  moment  to  reply  with  some  damned 
silly  platitude  that  would  have  set  all  Fleet  Street 
laughing  at  me.  Why  do  my  '  principles  '  interest 
you?" 

*  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  don't,"  she  explained. 
"  But  it's  what  people  talk  about  whenever  they  dis- 
cuss you." 

"  What  do  they  say?  "  he  demanded. 

'  Your  friends,  that  you  never  had  any.  And 
your  enemies,  that  they  are  always  the  latest,"  she  in- 
formed him. 

"  You'll  do,"  he  answered  with  a  laugh.     "  With 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  31 

nine  men  out  of  ten  that  speech  would  have  ended 
your  chances.  You  sized  me  up  at  a  glance,  and 
knew  it  would  only  interest  me.  And  your  instinct 
is  right,"  he  added.  ;<  What  people  are  saying:  al- 
ways go  straight  for  that." 

He  gave  her  a  commission  then  and  there  for  a 
heart  to  heart  talk  with  a  gentleman  whom  the  edi- 
tor of  the  Home  News  Department  of  the  Daily 
Dispatch  would  have  referred  to  as  a  "  Leading  Lit- 
erary Luminary,"  and  who  had  just  invented  a  new 
world  in  two  volumes.  She  had  asked  him  childish 
questions  and  had  listened  with  wide-open  eyes  while 
he,  sitting  over  against  her,  and  smiling  benevolently, 
had  laid  bare  to  her  all  the  seeming  intricacies  of 
creation,  and  had  explained  to  her  in  simple  language 
the  necessary  alterations  and  improvements  he  was 
hoping  to  bring  about  in  human  nature.  He  had 
the  sensation  that  his  hair  must  be  standing  on  end 
the  next  morning  after  having  read  in  cold  print 
what  he  had  said.  Expanding  oneself  before  the 
admiring  gaze  of  innocent  simplicity  and  addressing 
the  easily  amused  ear  of  an  unsympathetic  public  are 
not  the  same  thing.  He  ought  to  have  thought  of 
that. 

It  consoled  him,  later,  that  he  was  not  the  only 
victim.  The  Daily  Dispatch  became  famous  for  its 
piquant  interviews;  especially  with  elderly  celebrities 
of  the  masculine  gender. 

"  It's  dirty  work,"  Flossie  confided  one  day  to 
Madge  Singleton.  "  I  trade  on  my  silly  face. 
Don't  see  that  I'm  much  different  to  any  of  these 
poor  devils."  They  were  walking  home  in  the  eve- 
ning from  a  theatre.  "  If  I  hadn't  been  stony  broke 


32  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

I'd  never  have  taken  it  up.  I  shall  get  out  of  it  as 
soon  as  I  can  afford  to." 

"  I  should  make  it  a  bit  sooner  than  that,"  sug- 
gested the  elder  woman.  "  One  can't  always  stop 
oneself  just  where  one  wants  to  when  sliding  down  a 
slope.  It  has  a  knack  of  getting  steeper  and  steeper 
as  one  goes  on." 

Madge  had  asked  Joan  to  come  a  little  earlier  so 
that  they, could  have  a  chat  together  before  the  oth- 
ers arrived. 

14  I've  only  asked  a  few,"  she  explained,  as  she  led 
Joan  into  the  restful  white-panelled  sitting-room  that 
looked  out  upon  the  gardens.  Madge  shared  a  set 
o-f  chambers  in  Gray's  Inn  with  her  brother  who  was 
an  actor.  "  But  I've  chosen  them  with  care." 

Joan  murmured  her  thanks. 

"  I  haven't  asked  any  men,"  she  added,  as  she  fixed 
Joan  in  an  easy  chair  before  the  fire.  "  I  was  afraid 
of  its  introducing  the  wrong  element." 

'  Tell  me,"  asked  Joan,  "  am  I  likely  to  meet  with 
much  of  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  Oh,  about  as  much  as  there  always  is  wherever 
men  and  women  work  together,"  answered  Madge. 
"  It's  a  nuisance,  but  it  has  to  be  faced." 

"  Nature  appears  to  have  only  one  idea  in  her 
head,"  she  continued  after  a  pause,  "  so  far  as  we 
men  and  women  are  concerned.  She's  been  kinder 
to  the  lower  animals." 

"  Man  has  more  interests,"  Joan  argued,  "  a  thou- 
sand other  allurements  to  distract  him;  we  must  cul- 
tivate his  finer  instincts." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  answer,"  grumbled  Madge. 
"  One  is  always  told  it  is  the  artist  —  the  brain 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  33 

worker,  the  very  men  who  have  these  fine  instincts, 
who  are  the  most  sexual." 

She  made  a  little  impatient  movement  with  her 
hands  that  was  characteristic  of  her.  "  Personally, 
I  like  men,"  she  went  on.  "  It  is  so  splendid  the 
way  they  enjoy  life:  just  like  a  dog  does,  whether 
it's  wet  or  fine.  We  are  always  blinking  up  at  the 
clouds  and  worrying  about  our  hat.  It  would  be  so 
nice  to  be  able  to  have  friendship  with  them. 

"  I  don't  mean  that  it's  all  their  fault,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  We  do  all  we  can  to  attract  them  —  the 
way  we  dress.  Who  was  it  said  that  to  every 
woman  every  man  is  a  potential  lover?  We  can't 
get  it  out  of  our  minds.  It's  there  even  when  we 
don't  know  it.  We  will  never  succeed  in  civilizing 
Nature." 

ic  We  won't  despair  of  her,"  laughed  Joan. 
"  She's  creeping  up,  poor  lady,  as  Whistler  said  of 
her.  We  have  passed  the  phase  when  everything 
she  did  was  right  in  our  childish  eyes.  Now  we  dare 
to  criticize  her.  That  shows  we  are  growing  up. 
She  will  learn  from  us,  later  on.  She's  a  dear  old 
thing,  at  heart." 

"  She's  been  kind  enough  to  you,"  replied  Madge, 
somewhat  irrelevantly.  There  was  a  note  of  irrita- 
tion in  her  tone.  "  I  suppose  you  know  you  are 
supremely  beautiful.  You  seem  so  indifferent  to  it, 
I  wonder  sometimes  if  you  do." 

"  I'm  not  indifferent  to  it,"  answered  Joan. 
"  I'm  reckoning  on  it  to  help  me. 

'Why  not?"  she  continued,  with  a  flash  of  de- 
fiance, though  Madge  had  not  spoken.  "  It  is  a 
weapon  like  any  other  —  knowledge,  intellect,  cour- 


34  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

age.  God  has  given  me  beauty.  I  shall  use  it  in 
His  service." 

They  formed  a  curious  physical  contrast,  these 
two  women  in  this  moment.  Joan,  radiant,  serene, 
sat  upright  in  her  chair,  her  head  slightly  thrown 
back,  her  fine  hands  clasping  one  another  so  strongly 
that  the  delicate  muscles  could  be  traced  beneath  the 
smooth  white  skin.  Madge,  with  puckered  brows, 
leant  forward  in  a  crouching  attitude,  her  thin  nerv- 
ous hands  stretched  out  towards  the  fire. 

"  How  does  one  know  when  one  is  serving  God?  " 
she  asked  after  a  pause,  apparently  rather  of  herself 
than  of  Joan.  "  It  seems  so  difficult." 

"  One  feels  it,"  explained  Joan. 

"  Yes,  but  didn't  they  all  feel  it,"  Madge  sug- 
gested. She  still  seemed  to  be  arguing  with  herself 
rather  than  with  Joan.  "  Nietzsche.  I  have  been 
reading  him.  They  are  forming  a  Nietzsche  So- 
ciety to  give  lectures  about  him  —  propagate  him 
over  here.  Eleanor's  in  it  up  to  the  neck.  It  seems 
to  me  awful.  Every  fibre  in  my  being  revolts  against 
him.  Yet  they're  all  cocksure  that  he  is  the  coming 
prophet.  He  must  have  convinced  himself  that  he 
is  serving  God.  If  I  were  a  fighter  I  should  feel  I 
was  serving  God  trying  to  down  Him.  How  do  I 
know  which  of  us  is  right?  Torquemada  —  Cal- 
vin," she  went  on,  without  giving  Joan  the  chance  of 
a  reply.  u  It's  easy  enough  to  see  they  were  wrong 
now.  But  at  the  time  millions  of  people  believed  in 
them  —  felt  it  was  God's  voice  speaking  through 
them.  Joan  of  Arc!  Fancy  dying  to  put  a  thing 
like  that  upon  a  throne.  It  would  be  funny  if  it 
wasn't  so  tragic.  You  can  say  she  drove  out  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  35 

English  —  saved  France.  But  for  what?  The 
Bartholomew  massacres.  The  ruin  of  the  Palati- 
nate by  Louis  XIV.  The  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution,  ending  with  Napoleon  and  all  the  mis- 
ery and  degeneracy  that  he  bequeathed  to  Europe. 
History  might  have  worked  itself  out  so  much  better 
if  the  poor  child  had  left  it  alone  and  minded  her 
sheep." 

"  Wouldn't  that  train  of  argument  lead  to  no- 
body ever  doing  anything?  "  suggested  Joan. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  mean  stagnation,"  admitted 
Madge.  "  And  yet  I  don't  know.  Are  there  not 
forces  moving  towards  right  that  are  crying  to  us 
to  help  them,  not  by  violence,  which  only  interrupts 
—  delays  them,  but  by  quietly  preparing  the  way 
for  them?  You  know  what  I  mean.  Erasmus  al- 
ways said  that  Luther  had  hindered  the  Reformation 
by  stirring  up  passion  and  hate."  She  broke  off 
suddenly.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  u  Oh,  if 
God  would  only  say  what  He  wants  of  us,"  she  al- 
most cried;  "  call  to  us  in  trumpet  tones  that  would 
ring  through  the  world,  compelling  us  to  take  sides. 
Why  can't  He  speak?" 

"  He  does,"  answered  Joan.  "  I  hear  His  voice. 
There  are  things  I've  got  to  do.  Wrongs  that  I 
must  fight  against.  Rights  that  I  must  never  dare 
to  rest  till  they  are  won."  Her  lips  were  parted. 
Her  breasts  heaving.  "  He  does  call  to  us.  He 
has  girded  His  sword  upon  me." 

Madge  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  quite  a  while. 
"  How  confident  you  are,"  she  said.  "  How  I  envy 
you." 

They  talked  for  a  time  about  domestic  matters. 


36  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Joan  had  established  herself  in  furnished  rooms  in 
a  quiet  street  of  pleasant  Georgian  houses  just  be- 
hind the  Abbey;  a  member  of  Parliament  and  his 
wife  occupied  the  lower  floors,  the  landlord,  a  re- 
tired butler,  and  his  wife,  an  excellent  cook,  con- 
fining themselves  to  the  basement  and  the  attics. 
The  remaining  floor  was  tenanted  by  a  shy  young 
man  —  a  poet,  so  the  landlady  thought,  but  was  not 
sure.  Anyhow  he  had  long  hair,  lived  with  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  burned  his  lamp  long  into  the 
night.  Joan  had  omitted  to  ask  his  name.  She 
made  a  note  to  do  so. 

They  discussed  ways  and  means.  Joan  calculated 
she  could  get  through  on  two  hundred  a  year,  putting 
aside  fifty  for  dress.  Madge  was  doubtful  if  this 
would  be  sufficient.  Joan  urged  that  she  was  "  stock 
size  "  and  would  be  able  to  pick  up  "  models  "  at 
sales;  but  Madge,  measuring  her  against  herself,  was 
sure  she  was  too  full. 

'  You  will  find  yourself  expensive  to  dress,"  she 
told  her,  "  cheap  things  won't  go  well  on  you ;  and 
it  would  be  madness,  even  from  a  business  point  of 
view,  for  you  not  to  make  the  best  of  yourself." 

"  Men  stand  more  in  awe  of  a  well-dressed  woman 
than  they  do  even  of  a  beautiful  woman,"  Madge 
was  of  opinion.  "  If  you  go  into  an  office  looking 
dowdy  they'll  beat  you  down.  Tell  them  the  price 
they  are  offering  you  won't  keep  you  in  gloves  for  a 
week  and  they'll  be  ashamed  of  themselves. 
There's  nothing  infra  dig.  in  being  mean  to  the  poor; 
but  not  to  sympathize  with  the  rich  stamps  you  as 
middle  class,"  she  laughed. 

Joan  was  worried.     "  I  told  Dad  I  should  only 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  37 

ask  him  for  enough  to  make  up  two  hundred  a  year," 
she  explained.  "  He'll  laugh  at  me  for  not  know- 
ing my  own  mind." 

"  I  should  let  him,"  advised  Madge.  She  grew 
thoughtful  again.  "  We  cranky  young  women,  with 
our  new-fangled,  independent  ways,  I  guess  we  hurt 
the  old  folks  quite  enough  as  it  is." 

The  bell  rang  and  Madge  opened  the  door  herself. 
It  turned  out  to  be  Flossie.  Joan  had  not  seen  her 
since  they  had  been  at  Girton  together,  and  was 
surprised  at  Flossie's  youthful  "  get  up."  Flossie 
explained,  and  without  waiting  for  any  possible  at- 
tack flew  to  her  own  defence. 

"  The  revolution  that  the  world  is  waiting  for," 
was  Flossie's  opinion,  "  is  the  providing  of  every 
man  and  woman  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year. 
Then  we  shall  all  be  able  to  afford  to  be  noble  and 
high-minded.  As  it  is,  nine-tenths  of  the  contempti- 
ble things  we  do  comes  from  the  necessity  of  our 
having  to  earn  our  living.  A  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year  would  deliver  us  from  evil." 

"  Would  there  not  still  be  the  diamond  dog-collar 
and  the  motor  car  left  to  tempt  us?"  suggested 
Madge. 

"  Only  the  really  wicked,"  contended  Flossie. 
"  It  would  classify  us.  We  should  know  then  which 
were  the  sheep  and  which  the  goats.  At  present 
we're  all  jumbled  together:  the  ungodly  who  sin  out 
of  mere  greed  and  rapacity,  and  the  just  men  com- 
pelled to  sell  their  birthright  of  fine  instincts  for  a 
mess  of  meat  and  potatoes." 

'  Yah,  socialist,"  commented  Madge,  who  was 
busy  with  the  tea  things. 


38  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Flossie  seemed  struck  by  an  idea. 

"  By  Jove,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  did  I  never 
think  of  it?  With  a  red  flag  and  my  hair  down, 
I'd  be  in  all  the  illustrated  papers.  It  would  put 
up  my  price  no  end.  And  I'd  be  able  to  get  out  of 
this  silly  job  of  mine.  I  can't  go  on  much  longer. 
I'm  getting  too  well  known.  I  do  believe  I'll  try  it. 
The  shouting's  easy  enough."  She  turned  to  Joan. 
"Are  you  going  to  take  up  socialism?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"  I  may,"  answered  Joan.  "  Just  to  spank  it,  and 
put  it  down  again.  I'm  rather  a  believer  in  tempta- 
tion —  the  struggle  for  existence.  I  only  want  to 
make  it  a  finer  existence,  more  worth  the  struggle, 
in  which  the  best  man  shall  rise  to  the  top.  Your 
'  universal  security ' —  that  will  be  the  last  act  of 
the  human  drama,  the  cue  for  ringing  down  the  cur- 
tain." 

"  But  do  not  all  our  Isms  work  towards  that 
end?"  suggested  Madge. 

Joan  was  about  to  reply  when  the  maid's  announce- 
ment of  "  Mrs.  Denton  "  postponed  the  discussion. 

Mrs.  Denton  was  a  short,  grey-haired  lady.  Her 
large  strong  features  must  have  made  her,  when  she 
was  young,  a  hard-looking  woman;  but  time  and 
sorrow  had  strangely  softened  them;  while  about  the 
corners  of  the  thin  firm  mouth  lurked  a  suggestion 
of  humour  that  possibly  had  not  always  been  there. 
Joan,  waiting  to  be  introduced,  towered  head  and 
shoulders  above  her;  yet  when  she  took  the  small 
proffered  hand  and  felt  those  steely  blue  eyes  sur- 
veying her,  she  had  the  sensation  of  being  quite  in- 
significant. Mrs.  Denton  seemed  to  be  reading  her, 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  39 

and  then  still  retaining  Joan's  hand  she  turned  to 
Madge  with  a  smile. 

"  So  this  is  our  new  recruit,"  she  said.  "  She  is 
come  to  bring  healing  to  the  sad,  sick  world  —  to 
right  all  the  old,  old  wrongs." 

She    patted    Joan's    hand    and    spoke    gravely. 

*  That  is  right,  dear.     That  is  youth's  metier;  to 

take  the  banner  from  our  failing  hands,  bear  it  still 

a  little  onward."     Her  small  gloved  hand  closed  on 

Joan's  with  a  pressure  that  made  Joan  wince. 

"  And  you  must  not  despair,"  she  continued;  "  be- 
cause in  the  end  it  will  seem  to  you  that  you  have 
failed.  It  is  the  fallen  that  win  the  victories." 

She  released  Joan's  hand  abruptly.  "  Come  and 
see  me  tomorrow  morning  at  my  office,"  she  said. 
;<  We  will  fix  up  something  that  shall  be  serviceable 
to  us  both." 

Madge  flashed  Joan  a  look.  She  considered 
Joan's  position  already  secured.  Mrs.  Denton  was 
the  doyen  of  women  journalists.  She  edited  a 
monthly  review  and  was  leader  writer  of  one  of  the 
most  important  dailies,  besides  being  the  controlling 
spirit  of  various  social  movements.  Any  one  she 
"  took  up  "  would  be  assured  of  steady  work.  The 
pay  might  not  be  able  to  compete  with  the  prices  paid 
for  more  popular  journalism,  but  it  would  afford  a 
foundation,  and  give  to  Joan  that  opportunity  for 
influence  which  was  her  main  ambition. 

Joan  expressed  her  thanks.  She  would  like  to 
have  had  more  talk  with  the  stern  old  lady,  but  was 
prevented  by  the  entrance  of  two  new  comers.  The 
first  was  Miss  Lavery,  a  handsome,  loud-toned  young 
woman.  She  ran  a  nursing  paper,  but  her  chief  in- 


40  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

terest  was  in  the  woman's  suffrage  question,  just  then 
coming  rapidly  to  the  front.  She  had  heard  Joan 
speak  at  Cambridge  and  was  eager  to  secure  her 
adherence,  being  wishful  to  surround  herself  with  a 
group  of  young  and  good-looking  women  who  should 
take  the  movement  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
"  frumps,"  as  she  termed  them.  Her  doubt  was 
whether  Joan  would  prove  sufficiently  tractable. 
She  intended  to  offer  her  remunerative  work  upon 
the  Nursing  News  without  saying  anything  about 
the  real  motive  behind,  trusting  to  gratitude  to  make 
her  task  the  easier. 

The  second  was  a  clumsy-looking,  over-dressed 
woman  whom  Miss  Lavery  introduced  as  "  Mrs. 
Phillips,  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine,  who  is  going  to 
be  helpful  to  us  all,"  adding  in  a  hurried  aside  to 
Madge,  "  I  simply  had  to  bring  her.  Will  explain 
to  you  another  time."  An  apology  certainly  seemed 
to  be  needed.  The  woman  was  absurdly  out  of  her 
place.  She  stood  there  panting  and  slightly  perspir- 
ing. She  was  short  and  fat,  with  dyed  hair.  As  a 
girl  she  had  possibly  been  pretty  in  a  dimpled,  gig- 
gling sort  of  way.  Joan  judged  her,  in  spite  of  her 
complexion,  to  be  about  forty. 

Joan  wondered  if  she  could  be  the  wife  of  the 
Member  of  Parliament  who  occupied  the  rooms 
below  her  in  Cowley  Street.  His  name,  so  the  land- 
lady had  told  her,  was  Phillips.  She  put  the  sug- 
gestion in  a  whisper  to  Flossie. 

"Quite  likely,"  thought  Flossie;  "just  the  type 
that  sort  of  man  does  marry.  A  barmaid,  I  expect." 

Others  continued  to  arrive  until  altogether  there 
must  have  been  about  a  dozen  women  present.  One 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  41 

of  them  turned  out  to  be  an  old  schoolfellow  of 
Joan's  and  two  had  been  with  her  at  Girton.  Madge 
had  selected  those  who  she  knew  would  be  sympa- 
thetic, and  all  promised  help :  those  who  could  not 
give  it  direct  undertaking  to  provide  introductions 
and  recommendations,  though  some  of  them  were 
frankly  doubtful  of  journalism  affording  Joan  any- 
thing more  than  the  means  —  not  always  too  honest 
—  of  earning  a  living. 

"  I  started  out  to  preach  the  gospel:  all  that  sort 
of  thing,"  drawled  a  Miss  Simmonds  from  beneath  a 
hat  that,  if  she  had  paid  for  it,  would  have  cost 
her  five  guineas.  "  Now  my  chief  purpose  in  life 
is  to  tickle  silly  women  into  spending  twice  as  much 
upon  their  clothes  as  their  husbands  can  afford, 
bamboozling  them  into  buying  any  old  thing  that 
our  Advertising  Manager  instructs  me  to  boom." 

'  They  talk  about  the  editor's  opinions,"  struck  in 
a  fiery  little  woman  who  was  busy  flinging  crumbs  out 
of  the  window  to  a  crowd  of  noisy  sparrows.  "  It's 
the  Advertiser  edits  half  the  papers.  Write  any- 
thing that  three  of  them  object  to,  and  your  proprie- 
tor tells  you  to  change  your  convictions  or  go.  Most 
of  us  change."  She  jerked  down  the  window  with 
a  slam. 

"  It's  the  syndicates  that  have  done  it,"  was  a 
Mrs.  Elliot's  opinion.  She  wrote  "  Society  Notes  " 
for  a  Labour  weekly.  "  When  one  man  owned  a 
paper  he  wanted  it  to  express  his  views.  A  company 
is  only  out  for  profit.  Your  modern  newspaper  is 
just  a  shop.  Its  only  purpose  is  to  attract  custom- 
ers. Look  at  the  Methodist  Herald,  owned  by  the 
same  syndicate  of  Jews  that  runs  the  Racing  News. 


42  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

They  work  as  far  as  possible  with  the  same  staff." 

"  We're  a  pack  of  hirelings,"  asserted  the  fiery 
little  woman.  "  Our  pens  are  for  sale  to  the  highest 
bidder.  I  had  a  letter  from  Jocelyn  only  two  days 
ago.  He  was  one  of  the  original  staff  of  the  Social- 
ist. He  writes  me  that  he  has  gone  as  leader  writer 
to  a  Conservative  paper  at  twice  his  former  salary. 
Expected  me  to  congratulate  him." 

"  One  of  these  days  somebody  will  start  a  Society 
for  the  Reformation  of  the  Press,"  thought  Flossie. 
"  I  wonder  how  the  papers  will  take  it?  " 

"  Much  as  Rome  took  Savonarola,"  thought 
Madge. 

Mrs.  Denton  had  risen. 

"  They  are  right  to  a  great  extent,"  she  said  to 
Joan.  "  But  not  all  the  temple  has  been  given  over 
to  the  hucksters.  You  shall  place  your  preaching 
stool  in  some  quiet  corner,  where  the  passing  feet 
shall  pause  awhile  to  listen." 

Her  going  was  the  signal  for  the  breaking  up  of 
the  party.  In  a  short  time  Joan  and  Madge  found 
themselves  left  with  only  Flossie. 

"  What  on  earth  induced  Helen  to  bring  that  poor 
old  Dutch  doll  along  with  her?  "  demanded  Flossie. 
"  The  woman  never  opened  her  mouth  all  the  time. 
Did  she  tell  you?" 

"  No,"  answered  Madge,  "  but  I  think  I  can 
guess.  She  hopes  —  or  perhaps  '  fears  '  would  be 
more  correct  —  that  her  husband  is  going  to  join  the 
Cabinet,  and  is  trying  to  fit  herself  by  suddenly  study- 
ing political  and  social  questions.  For  a  month  she's 
been  clinging  like  a  leech  to  Helen  Lavery,  who  takes 
her  to  meetings  and  gatherings.  I  suppose  they've 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  43 

struck  up  some  sort  of  a  bargain.  It's  rather  pa- 
thetic." 

"  Good  Heavens !  What  a  tragedy  for  the  man," 
commented  Flossie. 

"  What  is  he  like?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Not  much  to  look  at,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
answered  Madge.  "  Began  life  as  a  miner,  I  be- 
lieve. Looks  like  ending  as  Prime  Minister." 

"  I  heard  him  at  the  Albert  Hall  last  week,"  said 
Flossie.  "  He's  quite  wonderful." 

"  In  what  way?  "  questioned  Joan. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  explained  Flossie.  "  Like  a 
volcano  compressed  into  a  steam  engine." 

They  discussed  Joan's  plans.  It  looked  as  if 
things  were  going  to  be  easy  for  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

YET  in  the  end  it  was  Carleton  who  opened  the 
door  for  her. 

Mrs.  Denton  was  helpful,  and  would  have  been 
more  so,  if  Joan  had  only  understood.  Mrs. 
Denton  lived  alone  in  an  old  house  in  Gower  Street, 
with  a  high  stone  hall  that  was  always  echoing  to 
sounds  that  no  one  but  itself  could  ever  hear.  Her 
son  had  settled,  it  was  supposed,  in  one  of  the  Col- 
onies. No  one  knew  what  had  become  of  him,  and 
Mrs.  Denton  herself  never  spoke  of  him;  while  her 
daughter,  on  whom  she  had  centred  all  her  remaining 
hopes,  had  died  years  ago.  To  those  who  remem- 
bered the  girl,  with  her  weak  eyes  and  wispy  ginger 
coloured  hair,  it  would  have  seemed  comical,  the  idea 
that  Joan  resembled  her.  But  Mrs.  Denton's  mem- 
ory had  lost  itself  in  dreams;  and  to  her  the  likeness 
had  appeared  quite  wonderful.  The  gods  had  given 
her  child  back  to  her,  grown  strong  and  brave  and 
clever.  Life  would  have  a  new  meaning  for  her. 
Her  work  would  not  die  with  her. 

She  thought  she  could  harness  Joan's  enthusiasm 
to  her  own  wisdom.  She  would  warn  her  of  the  er- 
rors and  pitfalls  into  which  she  herself  had  fallen: 
for  she,  too,  had  started  as  a  rebel.  Youth  should 
begin  where  age  left  off.  Had  the  old  lady  remem- 
bered a  faded  dog's-eared  volume  labelled  "  Odd- 
ments "  that  for  many  years  had  rested  undisturbed 
upon  its  shelf  in  her  great  library,  and  opening  it 

44 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  45 

had  turned  to  the  letter  E,  she  would  have  read  re- 
corded there,  in  her  own  precise  thin  penmanship, 
this  very  wise  reflection : 

"  Experience  is  a  book  that  all  men  write,  but  no 
man  reads." 

To  which  she  would  have  found  added,  by  way  of 
complement,  "  Experience  is  untranslatable.  We 
write  it  in  the  cipher  of  our  sufferings,  and  the  key  is 
hidden  in  our  memories." 

And  turning  to  the  letter  Y,  she  might  have  read : 
'  Youth  comes  to  teach.     Age  remains  to  listen," 
and  underneath  the  following: 

'  The  ability  to  learn  is  the  last  lesson  we  ac- 
quire." 

Mrs.  Denton  had  long  ago  given  up  the  practice  of 
jotting  down  her  thoughts,  experience  having  taught 
her  that  so  often,  when  one  comes  to  use  them,  one 
finds  that  one  has  changed  them.  But  in  the  case 
of  Joan  the  recollection  of  these  twin  "  oddments  " 
might  have  saved  her  disappointment.  Joan  knew 
of  a  new  road  that  avoided  Mrs.  Denton's  pitfalls. 
She  grew  impatient  of  being  perpetually  pulled  back. 

For  the  Nursing  Times  she  wrote  a  series  of  con- 
densed biographies,  entitled  "  Ladies  of  the  Lamp," 
commencing  with  Elizabeth  Fry.  They  formed  a 
record  of  good  women  who  had  battled  for  the  weak 
and  suffering,  winning  justice  for  even  the  uninterest- 
ing. Miss  Lavery  was  delighted  with  them.  But 
when  Joan  proposed  exposing  the  neglect  and  even 
cruelty  too  often  inflicted  upon  the  helpless  patients 
of  private  Nursing  Homes,  Miss  Lavery  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.     "  One  does  hear  complaints 


46  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

about  them.  Unfortunately  it  is  one  of  the  few  busi- 
nesses managed  entirely  by  women ;  and  just  now,  in 
particular,  if  we  were  to  say  anything,  it  would  be 
made  use  of  by  our  enemies  to  injure  the  Cause." 

There  was  a  summer  years  ago  —  it  came  back  to 
Joan's  mind  —  when  she  had  shared  lodgings  with 
a  girl  chum  at  a  crowded  sea-side  watering-place. 
The  rooms  were  shockingly  dirty;  and  tired  of  drop- 
ping hints  she  determined  one  morning  to  clean  them 
herself.  She  climbed  a  chair  and  started  on  a  row 
of  shelves  where  lay  the  dust  of  ages.  It  was  a 
jerry-built  house,  and  the  result  was  that  she  brought 
the  whole  lot  down  about  her  head,  together  with 
a  quarter  of  a  hundred  weight  of  plaster. 

*  Yes,  I  thought  you'd  do  some  mischief,"  had 
commented  the  landlady,  wearily. 

It  seemed  typical.  A  jerry-built  world,  appar- 
ently. With  the  best  intentions  it  seemed  impossible 
to  move  in  it  without  doing  more  harm  than  good  to 
it,  bringing  things  down  about  one  that  one  had  not 
intended. 

She  wanted  to  abolish  steel  rabbit-traps.  She  had 
heard  the  little  beggars  cry.  It  had  struck  her  as 
such  a  harmless  reform.  But  they  told  her  there 
were  worthy  people  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Wol- 
verhampton  —  quite  a  number  of  them  —  who  made 
their  living  by  the  manufacture  of  steel  rabbit-traps. 
If,  thinking  only  of  the  rabbits,  you  prohibited  steel 
rabbit-traps,  then  you  condemned  all  these  worthy 
people  to  slow  starvation.  The  local  Mayor  him- 
self wrote  in  answer  to  her  article.  He  drew  a  mov- 
ing picture  of  the  sad  results  that  might  follow  such 
an  ill-considered  agitation :  hundreds  of  grey-haired 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  47 

men,  too  old  to  learn  new  jobs,  begging  from  door  to 
door;  shoals  of  little  children,  white-faced  and 
pinched;  sobbing  women.  Her  editor  was  sorry  for 
the  rabbits.  Had  often  spent  a  pleasant  day  with 
them  himself.  But,  after  all,  the  Human  Race 
claimed  our  first  sympathies. 

She  wanted  to  abolish  sweating.  She  had  climbed 
the  rotting  stairways,  seen  the  famished  creatures  in 
their  holes.  But  it  seemed  that  if  you  interfered 
with  the  complicated  system  based  on  sweating  that 
then  you  dislocated  the  entire  structure  of  the  British 
export  clothing  trade.  Not  only  would  these  poor 
creatures  lose  their  admittedly  wretched  living  — 
but  still  a  living  —  but  thousands  of  other  innocent 
victims  would  also  be  involved  in  the  common  ruin. 
All  very  sad,  but  half  a  loaf  —  or  even  let  us  frankly 
say  a  thin  slice  —  is  better  than  no  bread  at  all. 

She  wanted  board  school  children's  heads  exam- 
ined. She  had  examined  one  or  two  herself. 
It  seemed  to  her  wrong  that  healthy  children 
should  be  compelled  to  sit  for  hours  within 
jumping  distance  of  the  diseased.  She  thought  it 
better  that  the  dirty  should  be  made  fit  company  for 
the  clean  than  the  clean  should  be  brought  down  to 
the  level  of  the  dirty.  It  seemed  that  in  doing  this 
you  were  destroying  the  independence  of  the  poor. 
Opposition  reformers,  in  letters  scintillating  with 
paradox,  bristling  with  classical  allusion,  denounced 
her  attempt  to  impose  middle-class  ideals  upon  a  too 
long  suffering  proletariat.  Better  far  a  few  lively 
little  heads  than  a  broken-spirited  people  robbed  of 
their  parental  rights. 

Through  Miss  Lavery  she  obtained  an  introduc- 


48  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

tion  to  the  great  Sir  William.  He  owned  a  group 
of  popular  provincial  newspapers,  and  was  most  en- 
couraging. Sir  William  had  often  said  to  himself: 

"  What  can  I  do  for  God  who  has  done  so  much 
for  me  ?  "  It  seemed  only  fair. 

He  asked  her  down  to  his  "  little  place  in  Hamp- 
shire," to  talk  plans  over.  The  "  little  place,"  it 
turned  out,  ran  to  forty  bedrooms,  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  three  hundred  acres  of  park.  God  had 
evidently  done  his  bit  quite  handsomely. 

It  was  in  a  secluded  corner  of  the  park  that  Sir 
William  had  gone  down  upon  one  knee  and  gal- 
lantly kissed  her  hand.  His  idea  was  that  if  she 
could  regard  herself  as  his  "  Dear  Lady,"  and  al- 
low him  the  honour  and  privilege  of  being  her  "  True 
Knight,"  that,  between  them,  they  might  accomplish 
something  really  useful.  There  had  been  some  dif- 
ficulty about  his  getting  up  again,  Sir  William  being 
an  elderly  gentleman  subject  to  rheumatism,  and 
Joan  had  had  to  expend  no  small  amount  of  muscu- 
lar effort  in  assisting  him;  so  that  the  episode  which 
should  have  been  symbolical  ended  by  leaving  them 
both  red  and  breathless. 

He  referred  to  the  matter  again  the  same  evening 
in  the  library  while  Lady  William  slept  peacefully  in 
the  blue  drawing-room;  but  as  it  appeared  necessary 
that  the  compact  should  be  sealed  by  a  knightly  kiss 
Joan  had  failed  to  ratify  it. 

She  blamed  herself  on  her  way  home.  The  poor 
old  gentleman  could  easily  have  been  kept  in 
his  place.  The  suffering  of  an  occasional  harm- 
less caress  would  have  purchased  for  her  power 
and  opportunity.  Had  it  not  been  somewhat 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  49 

selfish  of  her?  Should  she  write  to  him  —  see 
him  again? 

She  knew  that  she  never  would.  It  was  some- 
thing apart  from  her  reason.  It  would  not  even 
listen  to  her.  It  bade  or  forbade  as  if  one  were  a 
child  without  any  right  to  a  will  of  one's  own.  It 
was  decidedly  exasperating. 

There  were  others.  There  were  the  editors  who 
frankly  told  her  that  the  business  of  a  newspaper  was 
to  write  what  its  customers  wanted  to  read;  and 
that  the  public,  so  far  as  they  could  judge,  was  just 
about  fed  up  with  plans  for  New  Jerusalems  at  their 
expense.  And  the  editors  who  were  prepared  to 
take  up  any  number  of  reforms,  insisting  only  that 
they  should  be  new  and  original  and  promise  popu- 
larity. 

And  then  she  met  Greyson. 

It  was  at  a  lunch  given  by  Mrs.  Denton.  Greyson 
was  a  bachelor  and  lived  with  an  unmarried  sister, 
a  few  years  older  than  himself.  He  was  editor  and 
part  proprietor  of  an  evening  paper.  It  had  ideals 
and  was,  in  consequence,  regarded  by  the  general 
public  with  suspicion;  but  by  reason  of  sincerity  and 
braininess  was  rapidly  becoming  a  power.  He  was 
a  shy,  reserved  man  with  an  aristocratic  head  set 
upon  stooping  shoulders.  The  face  was  that  of  a 
dreamer,  but  about  the  mouth  there  was  suggestion 
of  the  fighter.  Joan  felt  at  her  ease  with  him  in 
spite  of  the  air  of  detachment  that  seemed  part  of 
his  character.  Mrs.  Denton  had  paired  them  off  to- 
gether; and,  during  the  lunch,  one  of  them  —  Joan 
could  not  remember  which  —  had  introduced  the 
subject  of  reincarnation. 


50  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Greyson  was  unable  to  accept  the  theory  because 
of  the  fact  that,  in  old  age,  the  mind  in  common  with 
the  body  is  subject  to  decay. 

"  Perhaps  by  the  time  I  am  forty  —  or  let  us  say 
fifty,"  he  argued,  "  I  shall  be  a  bright,  intelligent 
being.  If  I  die  then,  well  and  good.  I  select  a 
likely  baby  and  go  straight  on.  But  suppose  I  hang 
about  till  eighty  and  die  a  childish  old  gentleman 
with  a  mind  all  gone  to  seed.  What  am  I  going  to 
do  then?  I  shall  have  to  begin  all  over  again:  per- 
haps worse  off  than  I  was  before.  That's  not  go- 
ing to  help  us  much." 

Joan  explained  it  to  him :  that  old  age  might  be  lik- 
ened to  an  illness.  A  genius  lies  upon  a  bed  of  sick- 
ness and  babbles  childish  nonsense.  But  with  return- 
ing life  he  regains  his  power,  goes  on  increasing  it. 
The  mind,  the  soul,  has  not  decayed.  It  is  the  lines 
of  communication  that  old  age  has  destroyed. 

"  But  surely  you  don't  believe  it?  "  he  demanded. 

"Why  not?"  laughed  Joan.  "All  things  are 
possible.  It  was  the  possession  of  a  hand  that  trans- 
formed monkeys  into  men.  We  used  to  take  things 
up,  you  know,  and  look  at  them,  and  wonder  and 
wonder  and  wonder,  till  at  last  there  was  born  a 
thought  and  the  world  became  visible.  It  is  curios- 
ity that  will  lead  us  to  the  next  great  discovery.  We 
must  take  things  up;  and  think  and  think  and  think 
till  one  day. there  will  come  knowledge,  and  we  shall 
see  the  universe." 

Joan  always  avoided  getting  excited  when  she 
thought  of  it. 

"  I  love  to  make  you  excited,"  Flossie  had  once 
confessed  to  her  in  the  old  student  days.  "  You 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  51 

look  so  ridiculously  young  and  you  are  so  pleased 
with  yourself,  laying  down  the  law." 

She  did  not  know  she  had  given  way  to  it.  He 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looking  at  her;  and  the 
tired  look  she  had  noticed  in  his  eyes,  when  she  had 
been  introduced  to  him  in  the  drawing-room,  had 
gone  out  of  them. 

During  the  coffee,  Mrs.  Denton  beckoned  him  to 
come  to  her;  and  Miss  Greyson  crossed  over  and 
took  his  vacant  chair.  She  had  been  sitting  opposite 
to  them. 

"  I've  been  hearing  so  much  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  I  can't  help  thinking  that  you  ought  to  suit  my 
brother's  paper.  He  has  all  your  ideas.  Have  you 
anything  that  you  could  send  him?" 

Joan  considered  a  moment. 

"  Nothing  very  startling,"  she  answered.  "  I  was 
thinking  of  a  series  of  articles  on  the  old  London 
Churches  —  touching  upon  the  people  connected 
with  them  and  the  things  they  stood  for.  I've  just 
finished  the  first  one." 

"  It  ought  to  be  the  very  thing,"  answered  Miss 
Greyson.  She  was  a  thin,  faded  woman  with  a  soft, 
plaintive  voice.  "  It  will  enable  him  to  judge  your 
style.  He's  particular  about  that.  Though  I'm 
confident  he'll  like  it,"  she  hastened  to  add.  "  Ad- 
dress it  to  me,  will  you  ?  I  assist  him  as  much  as  I 
can." 

Joan  added  a  few  finishing  touches  that  evening, 
and  posted  it;  and  a  day  or  two  later  received  a  note 
asking  her  to  call  at  the  office. 

"  My  sister  is  enthusiastic  about  your  article  on 
Chelsea  Church  and  insists  on  my  taking  the  whole 


52  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

series,"  Greyson  informed  her.  "  She  says  you  have 
the  Stevensonian  touch." 

Joan  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  And  you,"  she  asked,  "  did  you  think  it  had  the 
Stevensonian  touch?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  it  seemed  to  me  to  have 
more  of  your  touch." 

"  What's  that  like?  "  she  demanded. 

"  They  couldn't  suppress  you,"  he  explained. 
"  Sir  Thomas  More  with  his  head  under  his  arm, 
bloody  old  Bluebeard,  grim  Queen  Bess,  snarling  old 
Swift,  Pope,  Addison,  Carlyle  —  the  whole  grisly 
crowd  of  them !  I  could  see  you  holding  your  own 
against  them  all,  explaining  things  to  them,  getting 
excited."  He  laughed. 

His  sister  joined  them,  coming  in  from  the  next 
room.  She  had  a  proposal  to  make.  It  was  that 
Joan  should  take  over  the  weekly  letter  from  "  Clo- 
rinda."  It  was  supposed  to  give  the  views  of  a  — 
perhaps  unusually  —  sane  and  thoughtful  woman 
upon  the  questions  of  the  day.  Miss  Greyson  had 
hitherto  conducted  it  herself,  but  was  wishful  as  she 
explained  to  be  relieved  of  it;  so  that  she  might  have 
more  time  for  home  affairs.  It  would  necessitate 
Joan's  frequent  attendance  at  the  office;  for  there 
would  be  letters  from  the  public  to  be  answered,  and 
points  to  be  discussed  with  her  brother.  She  was 
standing  behind  his  chair  with  her  hands  upon  his 
head.  There  was  something  strangely  motherly 
about  her  whole  attitude. 

Greyson  was  surprised,  for  the  letter  had  been  her 
own  conception,  and  had  grown  into  a  popular  fea- 
ture. But  she  was  evidently  in  earnest;  and  Joan 


53 

accepted  willingly.  "  Clorinda  "  grew  younger, 
more  self-assertive;  on  the  whole  more  human.  But 
still  so  eminently  "  sane  "  and  reasonable. 

"  We  must  not  forget  that  she  is  quite  a  respecta- 
ble lady,  connected  —  according  to  her  own  account 
—  with  the  higher  political  circles,"  Joan's  editor 
would  insist,  with  a  laugh. 

Miss  Greyson,  working  in  the  adjoining  room, 
would  raise  her  head  and  listen.  She  loved  to  hear 
him  laugh. 

"  It's  absurd,"  Flossie  told  her  one  morning,  as 
having  met  by  chance  they  were  walking  home  to- 
gether along  the  Embankment.  "  You're  not  '  Clo- 
rinda ' ;  you  ought  to  be  writing  letters  to  her,  not 
from  her,  waking  her  up,  telling  her  to  come  off 
her  perch,  and  find  out  what  the  earth  feels  like. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do :  I'll  trot  you  round  to  Carle- 
ton.  If  you're  out  for  stirring  up  strife  and  conten- 
tion, well,  that's  his  game,  too.  He'll  use  you  for 
his  beastly  sordid  ends.  He'd  have  roped  in  John 
the  Baptist  if  he'd  been  running  the  '  Jerusalem 
Star  '  at  the  time,  and  have  given  him  a  daily  column 
for  so  long  as  the  boom  lasted.  What's  that  matter, 
if  he's  willing  to  give  you  a  start?  " 

Joan  jibed  at  first.  But  in  the  end  Flossie's  argu- 
ments prevailed.  One  afternoon,  a  week  later,  she 
was  shown  into  Carleton's  private  room,  and  the 
door  closed  behind  her.  The  light  was  dim,  and 
for  a  moment  she  could  see  no  one;  until  Carleton, 
who  had  been  standing  near  one  of  the  windows, 
came  forward  and  placed  a  chair  for  her.  And 
they  both  sat  down. 

"  I've  glanced  through  some  of  your  things,"  he 


54  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

said.     "  They're  all  right.     They're  alive.    What's 
your  idea?  " 

Remembering  Flossie's  counsel,  she  went  straight 
to  the  point.  She  wanted  to  talk  to  the  people. 
She  wanted  to  get  at  them.  If  she  had  been  a  man, 
she  would  have  taken  a  chair  and  gone  to  Hyde 
Park.  As  it  was,  she  hadn't  the  nerve  for  Hyde 
Park.  At  least  she  was  afraid  she  hadn't.  It 
might  have  to  come  to  that.  There  was  a  trembling 
in  her  voice  that  annoyed  her.  She  was  so  afraid 
she  might  cry.  She  wasn't  out  for  anything  crazy. 
She  wanted  only  those  things  done  that  could  be 
done  if  the  people  would  but  lift  their  eyes,  look 
into  one  another's  faces,  see  the  wrong  and  the  in- 
justice that  was  all  around  them,  and  swear  that  they 
would  never  rest  till  the  pain  and  the  terror  had  been 
driven  from  the  land.  She  wanted  soldiers  —  men 
and  women  who  would  forget  their  own  sweet  selves, 
not  counting  their  own  loss,  thinking  of  the  greater 
gain;  as  in  times  of  war  and  revolution,  when  men 
gave  even  their  lives  gladly  for  a  dream,  for  a 
hope 

Without  warning  he  switched  on  the  electric  lamp 
that  stood  upon  the  desk,  causing  her  to  draw  back 
with  a  start. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Go  ahead.  You  shall 
have  your  tub,  and  a  weekly  audience  of  a  million 
readers  for  as  long  as  you  can  keep  them  interested. 
Up  with  anything  you  like,  and  down  with  everything 
you  don't.  Be  careful  not  to  land  me  in  a  libel  suit. 
Call  the  whole  Bench  of  Bishops  hypocrites,  and  all 
the  ground  landlords  thieves,  if  you  will :  but  don't 
mention  names.  And  don't  get  me  into  trouble  with 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  55 

the  police.  Beyond  that,  I  shan't  interfere  with 
you." 

She  was  about  to  speak. 

"  One  stipulation,"  he  went  on,  "  that  every  ar- 
ticle is  headed  with  your  photograph." 

He  read  the  sudden  dismay  in  her  eyes. 

"  How  else  do  you  think  you  are  going  to  attract 
their  attention?"  he  asked  her.  "By  your  elo- 
quence !  Hundreds  of  men  and  women  as  eloquent 
as  you  could  ever  be  are  shouting  to  them  every  day. 
Who  takes  any  notice  of  them?  Why  should  they 
listen  any  the  more  to  you  —  another  cranky  high- 
brow :  some  old  maid,  most  likely,  with  a  bony  throat 
and  a  beaky  nose.  If  Woman  is  going  to  come  into 
the  fight  she  will  have  to  use  her  own  weapons.  If 
she  is  prepared  to  do  that  she'll  make  things  hum 
with  a  vengeance.  She's  the  biggest  force  going,  if 
she  only  knew  it." 

He  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the  room. 

"  The  advertiser  has  found  that  out,  and  is  show- 
ing the  way."  He  snatched  at  an  illustrated  mag- 
azine, fresh  from  the  press,  that  had  been  placed 
upon  his  desk,  and  opened  it  at  the  first  page. 
"  Johnson's  Blacking,"  he  read  out,  "  advertised  by 
a  dainty  little  minx,  showing  her  ankles.  Who's 
going  to  stop  for  a  moment  to  read  about  somebody's 
blacking?  If  a  saucy  little  minx  isn't  there  to  trip 
him  up  with  her  ankles !  " 

He  turned  another  page.  "  Do  you  suffer  from 
gout?  Classical  lady  preparing  to  take  a  bath  and 
very  nearly  ready.  The  old  Johnny  in  the  train 
stops  to  look  at  her.  Reads  the  advertisement  be- 
cause she  seems  to  want  him  to.  Rubber  heels. 


56  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Save  your  boot  leather !  Lady  in  evening  dress  — 
jolly  pretty  shoulders  —  waves  them  in  front  of  your 
eyes.  Otherwise  you'd  never  think  of  them." 

He  fluttered  the  pages.  Then  flung  the  thing 
across  to  her. 

"  Look  at  it,"  he  said.  "  Fountain  pens  • —  Corn 
plasters  —  Charitable  appeals  —  Motor  cars  — 
Soaps  —  Grand  pianos.  It's  the  girl  in  tights  and 
spangles  outside  the  show  that  brings  them  trooping 
in. 

"  Let  them  see  you,"  he  continued.  "  You  say 
you  want  soldiers.  Throw  off  your  veil  and  call  for 
them.  Your  namesake  of  France !  Do  you  think 
if  she  had  contented  herself  with  writing  stirring  ap- 
peals that  Orleans  would  have  fallen?  She  put  on 
a  becoming  suit  of  armour  and  got  upon  a  horse 
where  every  one  could  see  her.  Chivalry  isn't  dead. 
You  modern  women  are  ashamed  of  yourselves  — 
ashamed  of  your  sex.  You  don't  give  it  a  chance. 
Revive  it.  Stir  the  young  men's  blood.  Their  souls 
will  follow." 

He  reseated  himself  and  leant  across  towards  her. 

"  I'm  not  talking  business,"  he  said.  "  This 
thing's  not  going  to  mean  much  to  me  one  way  or  the 
other.  I  want  you  to  win.  Farm  labourers  bring- 
ing up  families  on  twelve  and  six  a  week.  Shirt 
hands  working  half  into  the  night  for  three  farthings 
an  hour.  Stinking  dens  for  men  to  live  in.  De- 
graded women.  Half  fed  children.  It's  damnable. 
Tell  them  it's  got  to  stop.  That  the  Eternal  Fem- 
inine has  stepped  out  of  the  poster  and  commands 
it." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  57 

A  dapper  young  man  opened  the  door  and  put  his 
head  into  the  room. 

"  Railway  smash   in  Yorkshire,"   he  announced. 

Carleton  sat  up.     "  Much  of  a  one?  "  he  asked. 

The  dapper  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Three  killed,  eight  injured,  so  far,"  he  answered. 

Carleton's  interest  appeared  to  collapse. 

"  Stop  press  column?  "  asked  the  dapper  gentle- 
man. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Carleton.  "  Unless 
something  better  turns  up." 

The  dapper  young  gentleman  disappeared.  Joan 
had  risen. 

"  May  I  talk  it  over  with  a  friend?  "  she  asked. 
"  Myself,  I'm  inclined  to  accept." 

"  You  will,  if  you're  in  earnest,"  he  answered. 
"  I'll  give  you  twenty-four  hours.  Look  in  to- 
morrow afternoon,  and  see  Finch.  It  will  be  for  the 
Sunday  Post  —  the  Inset.  We  use  surfaced  paper 
for  that  and  can  do  you  justice.  Finch  will  arrange 
about  the  photograph."  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"  Shall  be  seeing  you  again,"  he  said. 

It  was  but  a  stone's  throw  to  the  office  of  the 
Evening  Gazette.  She  caught  Greyson  just  as  he 
was  leaving;  and  put  the  thing  before  him.  His  sis- 
ter was  with  him. 

He  did  not  answer  at  first.  He  was  walking  to 
and  fro;  and,  catching  his  foot  in  the  waste  paper 
basket,  he  kicked  it  savagely  out  of  his  way,  so  that 
the  contents  were  scattered  over  the  room. 

4  Yes,  he's  right,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the  Virgin 
above  the  altar  that  popularized  Christianity.  Her 


58  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

face  has  always  been  woman's  fortune.  If  she's  go- 
ing to  become  a  fighter,  it  will  have  to  be  her 
weapon." 

He  had  used  almost  the  same  words  that  Carleton 
had  used. 

"  I  so  want  them  to  listen  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  After  all,  it's  only  like  having  a  very  loud  voice." 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  it's  a  voice  men  will  listen  to." 

Mary  Greyson  was  standing  by  the  fire.  She  had 
not  spoken  hitherto. 

"  You  won't  give  up  '  Clorinda  '?  "  she  asked. 

Joan  had  intended  to  do  so,  but  something  in 
Mary's  voice  caused  her,  against  her  will,  to  change 
her  mind. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  answered.  "  I  shall  run 
them  both.  It  will  be  like  writing  Jekyll  and  Hyde." 

4  What  will  you  sign  yourself?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  own  name,  I  think,"  she  said.  "  Joan  All- 
way." 

Miss  Greyson  suggested  her  coming  home  to  din- 
ner with  them;  but  Joan  found  an  excuse.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  twilight  was  fading  as  she  left  the  office. 
She  turned  northward,  choosing  a  broad,  ill- 
lighted  road.     It  did  not  matter  which  way  she  took. 
She  wanted  to  think;  or,  rather,  to  dream. 

It  would  all  fall  out  as  she  had  intended.  She 
would  commence  by  becoming  a  power  in  journalism. 
She  was  reconciled  now  by  the  photograph  idea  — 
was  even  keen  on  it  herself.  She  would  be  taken 
full  face  so  that  she  would  be  looking  straight  into 
the  eyes  of  her  readers  as  she  talked  to  them.  It 
would  compel  her  to  be  herself;  just  a  hopeful,  lov- 
ing woman:  a  little  better  educated  than  the  major- 
ity, having  had  greater  opportunity:  a  little  further 
seeing,  maybe,  having  had  more  leisure  for  thought: 
but  otherwise,  no  whit  superior  to  any  other  young, 
eager  woman  of  the  people.  This  absurd  journal- 
istic pose  of  omniscience,  of  infallibility  —  this  non- 
existent garment  of  supreme  wisdom  that,  like  the 
King's  clothes  in  the  fairy  story,  was  donned  to  hide 
his  nakedness  by  every  strutting  nonentity  of  Fleet 
Street !  She  would  have  no  use  for  it.  It  should 
be  a  friend,  a  comrade,  a  fellow-servant  of  the  great 
Master,  taking  counsel  with  them,  asking  their  help. 
Government  by  the  people  for  the  people !  It  must 
be  made  real.  These  silent,  thoughtful-looking 
workers,  hurrying  homewards  through  the  darken- 
ing streets;  these  patient,  shrewd-planning  house- 
wives casting  their  shadows  on  the  drawn-down 

59 


60  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

blinds :  it  was  they  who  should  be  shaping  the  world, 
not  the  journalists  to  whom  all  life  was  but  so  much 
"  copy."  This  monstrous  conspiracy,  once  of  the 
Sword,  of  the  Church,  now  of  the  Press,  that  put  all 
Government  into  the  hands  of  a  few  stuffy  old  gen- 
tlemen, politicians,  leaders,  writers,  without  sympa- 
thy or  understanding:  it  was  time  that  it  was  swept 
away.  She  would  raise  a  new  standard.  It  should 
be,  not  "  Listen  to  me,  oh  ye  dumb,"  but  "  Speak  to 
me.  Tell  me  your  hidden  hopes,  your  fears,  your 
dreams.  Tell  me  your  experience,  your  thoughts 
born  of  knowledge,  of  suffering." 

She  would  get  into  correspondence  with  them,  go 
among  them,  talk  to  them.  The  difficulty,  at  first, 
would  be  in  getting  them  to  write  to  her,  to  open 
their  minds  to  her.  These  voiceless  masses  that 
never  spoke,  but  were  always  being  spoken  for  by 
self-appointed  "  leaders,"  "  representatives,"  who 
immediately  they  had  climbed  into  prominence  took 
their  place  among  the  rulers,  and  then  from  press 
and  platform  shouted  to  them  what  they  were  to 
think  and  feel.  It  was  as  if  the  Drill-Sergeant  were 
to  claim  to  be  the  "  leader,"  the  "  representative  " 
of  his  squad;  or  the  sheep-dog  to  pose  as  the  "  dele- 
gate "  of  the  sheep.  Dealt  with  always  as  if  they 
were  mere  herds,  mere  flocks,  they  had  almost  lost 
the  power  of  individual  utterance.  One  would  have 
to  teach  them,  encourage  them. 

She  remembered  a  Sunday  class  she  had  once  con- 
ducted; and  how  for  a  long  time  she  had  tried  in 
vain  to  get  the  children  to  "  come  in,"  to  take  a  hand. 
That  she  might  get  in  touch  with  them,  understand 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  61 

their  small  problems,  she  had  urged  them  to  ask 
questions.  And  there  had  fallen  such  long  silences. 
Until,  at  last,  one  cheeky  ragamuffin  had  piped  out: 

"  Please,  Miss,  have  you  got  red  hair  all  over 
you?  Or  only  on  your  head?  " 

For  answer  she  had  rolled  up  her  sleeve,  and  let 
them  examine  her  arm.  And  then,  in  her  turn,  had 
insisted  on  rolling  up  his  sleeve,  revealing  the  fact 
that  his  arms  above  the  wrists  had  evidently  not  too 
recently  been  washed;  and  the  episode  had  ended 
in  laughter  and  a  babel  of  shrill  voices.  And,  at 
once,  they  were  a  party  of  chums,  discussing  matters 
together. 

They  were  but  children,  these  tired  men  and 
women,  just  released  from  their  day's  toil,  hastening 
homeward  to  their  play,  or  to  their  evening  tasks. 
A  little  humour,  a  little  understanding,  a  recognition 
of  the  wonderful  likeness  of  us  all  to  one  another 
underneath  our  outward  coverings  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  break  down  the  barrier,  establish  comrade- 
ship. She  stood  aside  a  moment  to  watch  them 
streaming  by.  Keen,  strong  faces  were  among  them, 
high,  thoughtful  brows,  kind  eyes;  they  must  learn 
to  think,  to  speak  for  themselves. 

She  would  build  again  the  Forum.  The  people's 
business  should  no  longer  be  settled  for  them  behind 
lackey-guarded  doors.  The  good  of  the  farm  la- 
bourer should  be  determined  not  exclusively  by  the 
squire  and  his  relations.  The  man  with  the  hoe,  the 
man  with  the  bent  back  and  the  patient  ox-like  eyes: 
he,  too,  should  be  invited  to  the  Council  board. 
Middle-class  domestic  problems  should  be  solved  not 
solely  by  fine  gentlemen  from  Oxford;  the  wife  of 


62  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

the  little  clerk  should  be  allowed  her  say.  War  or 
peace,  it  should  no  longer  be  regarded  as  a  question 
concerning  only  the  aged  rich.  The  common  peo- 
ple —  the  cannon  fodder,  the  men  who  would  die, 
and  the  women  who  would  weep :  they  should  be 
given  something  more  than  the  privilege  of  either 
cheering  platform  patriots  or  being  summonsed  for 
interrupting  public  meetings. 

From  a  dismal  side  street  there  darted  past  her  a 
small,  shapeless  figure  in  crumpled  cap  and  apron: 
evidently  a  member  of  that  lazy,  over-indulged  class, 
the  domestic  servant.  Judging  from  the  talk  of  the 
drawing-rooms,  the  correspondence  in  the  papers,  a 
singularly  unsatisfactory  body.  They  toiled  not, 
lived  in  luxury  and  demanded  grand  pianos.  Some 
one  had  proposed  doing  something  for  them.  They 
themselves  —  it  seemed  that  even  they  had  a  sort  of 
conscience  —  were  up  in  arms  against  it.  Too 
much  kindness  even  they  themselves  perceived  was 
bad  for  them.  They  were  holding  a  meeting  that 
night  to  explain  how  contented  they  were.  Six  peer- 
esses had  consented  to  attend,  and  speak  for  them. 

Likely  enough  that  there  were  good-for-nothing, 
cockered  menials  imposing  upon  incompetent  mis- 
tresses. There  were  pampered  slaves  in  Rome. 
But  these  others.  These  poor  little  helpless  sluts. 
There  were  thousands  such  in  every  city,  over- 
worked and  under-fed,  living  lonely,  pleasureless 
lives.  They  must  be  taught  to  speak  in  other  voices 
than  the  dulcet  tones  of  peeresses.  By  the  light  of 
the  guttering  candles,  from  their  chill  attics,  they 
should  write  to  her  their  ill-spelt  visions. 

She  had  reached  a  quiet,  tree-bordered  road,  sur- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  63 

rounding  a  great  park.  Lovers,  furtively  holding 
hands,  passed  her  by,  whispering. 

She  would  write  books.  She  would  choose  for 
her  heroine  a  woman  of  the  people.  How  full  of 
drama,  of  tragedy  must  be  their  stories:  their  prob- 
lems the  grim  realities  of  life,  not  only  its  mere  sen- 
timental embroideries.  The  daily  struggle  for  bare 
existence,  the  ever-shadowing  menace  of  unemploy- 
ment, of  illness,  leaving  them  helpless  amid  the 
grinding  forces  crushing  them  down  on  every  side. 
The  ceaseless  need  for  courage,  for  cunning.  For 
in  the  kingdom  of  the  poor  the  tyrant  and  the  op- 
pressor still  sit  in  the  high  places,  the  robber  still 
rides  fearless. 

In  a  noisy,  flaring  street,  a  thin-clad  woman  passed 
her,  carrying  a  netted  bag  showing  two  loaves.  In 
a  flash,  it  came  to  her  what  it  must  mean  to  the  poor; 
this  daily  bread  that  in  comfortable  homes  had  come 
to  be  regarded  as  a  thing  like  water;  not  to  be  con- 
sidered, to  be  used  without  stint,  wasted,  thrown 
about.  Borne  by  those  feeble,  knotted  hands,  Joan 
saw  it  revealed  as  something  holy:  hallowed  by  la- 
bour; sanctified  by  suffering,  by  sacrifice;  worshipped 
with  fear  and  prayer. 

In  quiet  streets  of  stately  houses,  she  caught 
glimpses  through  uncurtained  windows  of  richly-laid 
dinner-tables  about  which  servants  moved  noiselessly, 
arranging  flowers  and  silver.  She  wondered  idly  if 
she  would  ever  marry.  A  gracious  hostess,  gather- 
ing around  her  brilliant  men  and  women,  statesmen, 
writers,  artists,  captains  of  industry:  counselling 
them,  even  learning  from  them :  encouraging  shy 
genius.  Perhaps,  in  a  perfectly  harmless  way,  al- 


64  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

lowing  it  the  inspiration  derivable  from  a  well-reg- 
ulated devotion  to  herself.  A  salon  that  should 
be  the  nucleus  of  all  those  forces  that  influence  influ- 
ences, over  which  she  would  rule  with  sweet  and  wise 
authority.  The  idea  appealed  to  her. 

Into  the  picture,  slightly  to  the  background,  she 
unconsciously  placed  Greyson.  His  tall,  thin  figure 
with  its  air  of  distinction  seemed  to  fit  in;  Greyson 
would  be  very  restful.  She  could  see  his  handsome, 
ascetic  face  flush  with  pleasure  as,  after  the  guests 
were  gone,  she  would  lean  over  the  back  of  his 
chair  and  caress  for  a  moment  his  dark,  soft  hair 
tinged  here  and  there  with  grey.  He  would  always 
adore  her,  in  that  distant,  undemonstrative  way  of 
his  that  would  never  be  tiresome  or  exacting.  They 
would  have  children.  But  not  too  many.  That 
would  make  the  house  noisy  and  distract  her  from 
her  work.  They  would  be  beautiful  and  clever;  un- 
less all  the  laws  of  heredity  were  to  be  set  aside  for 
her  especial  injury.  She  would  train  them,  shape 
them  to  be  the  heirs  of  her  labour,  bearing  her  mes- 
sage to  the  generations  that  should  follow. 

At  a  corner  where  the  trams  and  buses  stopped 
she  lingered  for  a  while,  watching  the  fierce  struggle; 
the  weak  and  aged  being  pushed  back  time  after  time, 
hardly  seeming  to  even  resent  it,  regarding  it  as  in 
the  natural  order  of  things.  It  was  so  absurd,  apart 
from  the  injustice,  the  brutality  of  it!  The  poor, 
fighting  among  themselves !  She  felt  as  once  when 
watching  a  crowd  of  birds  to  whom  she  had  thrown 
a  handful  of  crumbs  in  winter  time.  As  if  they  had 
not  enemies  enough :  cats,  weasels,  rats,  hawks,  owls, 
the  hunger  and  the  cold.  And  added  to  all,  they 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  65 

must  needs  make  the  struggle  yet  harder  for  one  an- 
other: pecking  at  each  other's  eyes,  joining  with 
one  another  to  attack  the  fallen.  These  tired  men, 
these  weary  women,  pale-faced  lads  and  girls,  why 
did  they  not  organize  among  themselves  some  sys- 
tem that  would  do  away  with  this  daily  warfare  of 
ea<yh  against  all?  If  only  they  could  be  got  to  grasp 
the  fact  that  they  were  one  family,  bound  together 
by  suffering.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  would  they 
be  able  to  make  their  power  felt.  That  would  have 
to  come  first :  the  Esprit  de  Corps  of  the  Poor. 

In  the  end  she  would  go  into  Parliament.  It 
would  be  bound  to  come  soon,  the  woman's  vote. 
And  after  that  the  opening  of  all  doors  would  fol- 
low. She  would  wear  her  college  robes.  It  would 
be  far  more  fitting  than  a  succession  of  flimsy  frocks 
that  would  have  no  meaning  in  them.  What  pity 
it  was  that  the  art  of  dressing  —  its  relation  to  life 
—  was  not  better  understood.  What  beauty-hating 
devil  had  prompted  the  workers  to  discard  their 
characteristic  costumes  that  had  been  both  beautiful 
and  serviceable  for  these  hateful  slop-shop  clothes 
that  made  them  look  like  walking  scarecrows  ?  Why 
had  the  coming  of  Democracy  coincided  seemingly 
with  the  spread  of  ugliness :  dull  towns,  mean  streets, 
paper-strewn  parks,  corrugated  iron  roofs,  Chris- 
tian chapels  that  would  be  an  insult  to  a  heathen 
idol;  hideous  factories  (Why  need  they  be  hide- 
ous!) ;  chimney-pot  hats,  baggy  trousers,  vulgar  ad- 
vertisements, stupid  fashions  for  women  that  spoilt 
every  line  of  their  figure;  dinginess,  drabness,  mo- 
notony everywhere.  It  was  ugliness  that  was  strang- 
ling the  soul  of  the  people;  stealing  from  them  all 


66  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

dignity,  all  self-respect,  all  honour  for  one  another; 
robbing  them  of  hope,  of  reverence,  of  joy  in  life. 

Beauty.  That  was  the  key  to  the  riddle.  All 
Nature:  its  golden  sunsets  and  its  silvery  dawns;  the 
glory  of  piled-up  clouds,  the  mystery  of  moon-lit 
glades;  its  rivers  winding  through  the  meadows;  the 
calling  of  its  restless  seas;  the  tender  witchery 3of 
Spring;  the  blazonry  of  autumn  woods;  its  purple 
moors  and  the  wonder  of  its  silent  mountains;  its 
cobwebs  glittering  with  a  thousand  jewels;  the  pag- 
eantry of  starry  nights.  Form,  colour,  music !  The 
feathered  choristers  of  bush  and  brake  raising  their 
matin  and  their  evensong,  the  whispering  of  the 
leaves,  the  singing  of  the  waters,  the  voices  of  the 
winds.  Beauty  and  grace  in  every  living  thing,  but 
man.  The  leaping  of  the  hares,  the  grouping  of 
cattle,  the  flight  of  swallows,  the  dainty  loveliness 
of  insects'  wings,  the  glossy  skin  of  horses  rising  and 
falling  to  the  play  of  mighty  muscles.  Was  it  not 
seeking  to  make  plain  to  us  that  God's  language  was 
beauty?  Man  must  learn  beauty  that  he  may  under- 
stand God. 

She  saw  the  London  of  the  future.  Not  the  vi- 
sion popular  just  then:  a  soaring  whirl  of  machinery 
in  motion,  of  moving  pavements  and  flying  omni- 
buses; of  screaming  gramophones  and  standardized 
"homes";  a  city  where  Electricity  was  King  and 
man  its  soulless  slave.  But  a  city  of  peace,  of  rest- 
ful spaces,  of  leisured  men  and  women;  a  city  of 
fine  streets  and  pleasant  houses,  where  each  could 
live  his  own  life,  learning  freedom,  individuality;  a 
city  of  noble  schools;  of  workshops  that  should  be 
worthy  of  labour,  filled  with  light  and  air;  smoke 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  67 

and  filth  driven  from  the  land:  science,  no  longer 
bound  to  commercialism,  having  discovered  cleaner 
forces;  a  city  of  gay  playgrounds  where  children 
should  learn  laughter;  of  leafy  walks  where  the  crea- 
tures of  the  wood  and  field  should  be  as  welcome 
guests  helping  to  teach  sympathy  and  kindliness:  a 
city  of  music,  of  colour,  of  gladness.  Beauty  wor- 
shipped as  religion;  ugliness  banished  as  a  sin:  no 
ugly  slums,  no  ugly  cruelty,  no  slatternly  women  and 
brutalized  men,  no  ugly,  sobbing  children;  no  ugly 
vice  flaunting  in  every  highway  its  insult  to  human- 
ity: a  city  clad  in  beauty  as  with  a  living  garment 
where  God  should  walk  with  man. 

She  had  reached  a  neighbourhood  of  narrow, 
crowded  streets.  The  women  were  mostly  without 
hats;  and  swarthy  men,  rolling  cigarettes,  lounged 
against  doorways.  The  place  had  a  quaint  foreign 
flavour.  Tiny  cafes,  filled  with  smoke  and  noise, 
and  clean,  inviting  restaurants  abounded.  She  was 
feeling  hungry,  and,  choosing  one  the  door  of  which 
stood  open,  revealing  white  tablecloths  and  a  pleas- 
ant air  of  cheerfulness,  she  entered.  It  was  late  and 
the  tables  were  crowded.  Only  at  one,  in  a  far  cor- 
ner, could  she  detect  a  vacant  place,  opposite  to  a 
slight,  pretty-looking  girl  very  quietly  dressed.  She 
made  her  way  across  and  the  girl,  anticipating  her 
request,  welcomed  her  with  a  smile.  They  ate  for 
a  while  in  silence,  divided  only  by  the  narrow  table, 
their  heads,  when  they  leant  forward,  almost  touch- 
ing. Joan  noticed  the  short,  white  hands,  the  frag- 
rance of  some  delicate  scent.  There  was  something 
odd  about  her.  She  seemed  to  be  unnecessarily  con- 
scious of  being  alone.  Suddenly  she  spoke. 


68  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  Nice  little  restaurant,  this,"  she  said.  "  One 
of  the  few  places  where  you  can  depend  upon  not 
being  annoyed." 

Joan  did  not  understand.  "  In  what  way?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  you  know,  men,"  answered  the  girl. 
"  They  come  and  sit  down  opposite  to  you,  and  won't 
leave  you  alone.  At  most  of  the  places,  you've  got 
to  put  up  with  it  or  go  outside.  Here,  old  Gustav 
never  permits  it." 

Joan  was  troubled.  She  was  rather  looking  for- 
ward to  occasional  restaurant  dinners,  where  she 
would  be  able  to  study  London's  Bohemia. 

"  You  mean,"  she  asked,  "  that  they  force  them- 
selves upon  you,  even  if  you  make  it  plain " 

"  Oh,  the  plainer  you  make  it  that  you  don't  want 
them,  the  more  sport  they  think  it,"  interrupted  the 
girl  with  a  laugh. 

Joan  hoped  she  was  exaggerating.  "  I  must  try 
and  select  a  table  where  there  is  some  good-natured 
girl  to  keep  me  in  countenance,"  she  said  with  a 
smile. 

'  Yes,  I  was  glad  to  see  you,"  answered  the  girl. 
"  It's  hateful,  dining  by  oneself.  Are  you  living 
alone?" 

'  Yes,"  answered  Joan.     "  I'm  a  journalist." 

"  I  thought  you  were  something,"  answered  the 
girl.  "  I'm  an  artist.  Or,  rather,  was,"  she  added 
after  a  pause. 

'  Why  did  you  give  it  up?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  given  it  up,  not  entirely,"  the  girl 
answered.  "  I  can  always  get  a  couple  of  sovereigns 
for  a  sketch,  if  I  want  it,  from  one  or  another  of  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  69 

frame-makers.  And  they  can  generally  sell  them  for 
a  fiver.  I've  seen  them  marked  up.  Have  you  been 
long  in  London?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Joan.     "  I'm  a  Lancashire  lass." 

"  Curious,"  said  the  girl,  "  so  am  I.  My  father's 
a  mill  manager  near  Bolton.  You  weren't  educated 
there?" 

"  No,"  Joan  admitted.  "  I  went  to  Rodean  at 
Brighton  when  I  was  ten  years  old,  and  so  escaped  it. 
Nor  were  you,"  she  added  with  a  smile,  "  judging 
from  your  accent." 

"  No,"  answered  the  other,  "  I  was  at  Hastings 
—  Miss  Gwyn's.  Funny  how  we  seem  to  have  al- 
ways been  near  to  one  another.  Dad  wanted  me 
to  be  a  doctor.  But  I'd  always  been  mad  about 
art." 

Joan  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  girl.  It  was  a 
spiritual,  vivacious  face  with  frank  eyes  and  a  firm 
mouth;  and  the  voice  was  low  and  strong. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  what  interfered  with  it?  " 
Unconsciously  she  was  leaning  forward,  her  chin  sup- 
ported by  her  hands.  Their  faces  were  very  near  to 
one  another. 

The  girl  looked  up.  She  did  not  answer  for  a 
moment.  There  came  a  hardening  of  the  mouth  be- 
fore she  spoke. 

"  A  baby,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  it  was  my  own  fault," 
she  continued.  "  I  wanted  it.  It  was  all  the  talk  at 
the  time.  You  don't  remember.  Our  right  to 
children.  No  woman  complete  without  one.  Ma- 
ternity, woman's  kingdom.  All  that  sort  of  thing. 
As  if  the  storks  brought  them.  Don't  suppose  it 
made  any  real  difference;  but  it  just  helped  me  to 


70  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

pretend  that  it  was  something  pretty  and  high-class. 
'  Overmastering  passion  '  used  to  be  the  explanation, 
before  that.  I  guess  it's  all  much  of  a  muchness: 
just  natural  instinct." 

The  restaurant  had  been  steadily  emptying. 
Monsieur  Gustav  and  his  ample-bosomed  wife  were 
seated  at  a  distant  table,  eating  their  own  dinner. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  have  married?  "  asked  Joan. 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  '  Who  was 
there  for  me  to  marry?  "  she  answered.  '  The  men 
who  wanted  me:  clerks,  young  tradesmen,  down  at 
home  —  I  wasn't  taking  any  of  that  lot.  And  the 
men  I  might  have  fancied  were  all  of  them  too  poor. 
There  was  one  student.  He's  got  on  since.  Easy 
enough  for  him  to  talk  about  waiting.  Meanwhile. 
Well,  it's  like  somebody  suggesting  dinner  to  you  the 
day  after  tomorrow.  All  right  enough,  if  you're 
not  troubled  with  an  appetite." 

The  waiter  came  to  clear  the  table.  They  were 
almost  the  last  customers  left.  The  man's  tone  and 
manner  jarred  upon  Joan.  She  had  not  noticed  it 
before.  Joan  ordered  coffee  and  the  girl,  exchang- 
ing a  joke  with  the  waiter,  added  a  liqueur. 

"  But  why  should  you  give  up  your  art?"  per- 
sisted Joan.  It  was  that  was  sticking  in  her  mind. 
"  I  should  have  thought  that,  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  child,  you  would  have  gone  on  with  it." 

"  Oh,  I  told  myself  all  that,"  answered  the  girl. 
'  Was  going  to  devote  my  life  to  it.  Did  for  nearly 
two  years.  Till  I  got  sick  of  living  like  a  nun :  never 
getting  a  bit  of  excitement.  You  see,  I've  got 
the  poison  in  me.  Or,  maybe,  it  had  always  been 
there." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  71 

"What's  become  of  it?"  asked  Joan.  "The 
child?" 

"  Mother's  got  it,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Seemed 
best  for  the  poor  little  beggar.  I'm  supposed  to  be 
dead,  and  my  husband  gone  abroad."  She  gave  a 
short,  dry  laugh.  u  Mother  brings  him  up  to  see 
me  once  a  year.  They've  got  quite  fond  of  him." 

'  What  are  you  doing  now?  "  asked  Joan,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  look  so  scared,"  laughed  the 
girl,  "  I  haven't  come  down  to  that."  Her  voice 
had  changed.  It  had  a  note  of  shrillness.  In  some 
indescribable  way  she  had  grown  coarse.  "  I'm  a 
kept  woman,"  she  explained.  "  What  else  is  any 
woman?  " 

She  reached  for  her  jacket;  and  the  waiter  sprang 
forward  and  helped  her  on  with  it,  prolonging  the 
business  needlessly.  She  wished  him  "  Good  eve- 
ning "  in  a  tone  of  distant  hauteur,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  door.  Outside  the  street  was  dim  and  silent. 
Joan  held  out  her  hand. 

"  No  hope  of  happy  endings,"  she  said  with  a 
forced  laugh.  "Couldn't  marry  him  I  suppose?" 

"  He  has  asked  me,"  answered  the  girl  with  a 
swagger.  "Not  sure  that  it  would  suit  me  now. 
They're  not  so  nice  to  you  when  they've  got  you  fixed 
up.  So  long." 

She  turned  abruptly  and  walked  rapidly  away. 
Joan  moved  instinctively  in  the  opposite  direction, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  found  herself  in  a  broad 
well-lighted  thoroughfare.  A  newsboy  was  shout- 
ing his  wares. 

"  'Orrible  murder  of  a  woman.     Shockin'  details. 


72  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Speshul,"  repeating  it  over  and  over  again  in  a 
hoarse,  expressionless  monotone. 

He  was  selling  the  papers  like  hot  cakes;  the  pur- 
chasers too  eager  to  even  wait  for  their  change.  She 
wondered,  with  a  little  lump  in  her  throat,  how  many 
would  have  stopped  to  buy  had  he  been  calling  in- 
stead: "Discovery  of  new  sonnet  by  Shakespeare. 
Extra  special." 

Through  swinging  doors,  she  caught  glimpses  of 
foul  interiors,  crowded  with  men  and  women  released 
from  their  toil,  taking  their  evening  pleasure.  From 
coloured  posters  outside  the  great  theatres  and  music 
halls,  vulgarity  and  lewdness  leered  at  her,  side  by 
side  with  announcements  that  the  house  was  full. 
From  every  roaring  corner,  scintillating  lights  flared 
forth  the  merits  of  this  public  benefactor's  whisky, 
of  this  other  celebrity's  beer :  it  seemed  the  only  mes- 
sage the  people  cared  to  hear.  Even  among  the 
sirens  of  the  pavement,  she  noticed  that  the  quiet 
and  merely  pretty  were  hardly  heeded.  It  was 
everywhere  the  painted  and  the  overdressed  that 
drew  the  roving  eyes. 

She  remembered  a  pet  dog  that  some  one  had  given 
her  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  how  one  afternoon  she 
had  walked  with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face 
because,  in  spite  of  her  scoldings  and  her  pleadings, 
it  would  keep  stopping  to  lick  up  filth  from  the  road- 
way. A  kindly  passer-by  had  laughed  and  told  her 
not  to  mind. 

'  Why,  that's  a  sign  of  breeding,  that  is,  Missie," 
the  man  had  explained.  "  It's  the  classy  ones  that 
are  always  the  worst." 

It  had  come  to  her  afterwards  craving  with  its 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  73 

soft  brown,  troubled  eyes  for  forgiveness.  But  she 
had  never  been  able  to  break  it  of  the  habit. 

Must  man  for  ever  be  chained  by  his  appetites  to 
the  unclean :  ever  be  driven  back,  dragged  down  again 
into  the  dirt  by  his  own  instincts:  ever  be  rendered 
useless  for  all  finer  purposes  by  the  baseness  of  his 
own  desires? 

The  City  of  her  Dreams!  The  mingled  voices 
of  the  crowd  shaped  themselves  into  a  mocking  laugh. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  she  that  they  were 
laughing  at,  pointing  her  out  to  one  another,  jeering 
at  her,  reviling  her,  threatening  her. 

She  hurried  onward  with  bent  head,  trying  to  es- 
cape them.  She  felt  so  small,  so  helpless.  Almost 
she  cried  out  in  her  despair. 

She  must  have  walked  mechanically.  Looking  up 
she  found  herself  in  her  own  street.  And  as  she 
reached  her  doorway  the  tears  came  suddenly. 

She  heard  a  quick  step  behind  her,  and  turning, 
she  saw  a  man  with  a  latch  key  in  his  hand.  He 
passed  her  and  opened  the  door;  and  then,  facing 
round,  stood  aside  for  her  to  enter.  He  was  a 
sturdy,  thick-set  man  with  a  strong,  massive  face. 
It  would  have  been  ugly  but  for  the  deep,  flashing 
eyes.  There  was  tenderness  and  humour  in  them. 

"  We  are  next  floor  neighbours,"  he  said.  "  My 
name's  Phillips." 

Joan  thanked  him.  As  he  held  the  door  open  for 
her  their  hands  accidentally  touched.  Joan  wished 
him  good-night  and  went  up  the  stairs.  There  was 
no  light  in  her  room :  only  the  faint  reflection  of  the 
street  lamp  outside. 

She  could  still  see  him:  the  boyish  smile.     And 


74  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

his  voice  that  had  sent  her  tears  back  again  as  if 
at  the  word  of  command. 

She  hoped  he  had  not  seen  them.  What  a  little 
fool  she  was. 

A  little  laugh  escaped  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ONE  day  Joan,  lunching  at  the  club,  met  Madge 
Singleton. 

"  I've  had  such  a  funny  letter  from  Flossie,"  said 
Joan,  "  begging  me  almost  with  tears  in  her  ink  to 
come  to  her  on  Sunday  evening  to  meet  a  '  gentle- 
man friend  '  of  hers,  as  she  calls  him,  and  give  her 
my  opinion  of  him.  What  on  earth  is  she  up  to?  " 

"  It's  all  right,"  answered  Madge.  "  She  doesn't 
really  want  our  opinion  of  him  —  or  rather  she 
doesn't  want  our  real  opinion  of  him.  She  only 
wants  us  to  confirm  hers.  She's  engaged  to  him." 

"  Flossie  engaged!  "     Joan  seemed  surprised. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Madge.  "  It  used  to  be  a  cus- 
tom. Young  men  used  to  ask  young  women  to 
marry  them.  And  if  they  consented  it  was  called 
'  being  engaged.'  Still  prevails,  so  I  am  told,  in 
certain  classes." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Joan.     "  I  have  heard  of  it." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  hadn't  from  your  tone," 
explained  Madge. 

"  But  if  she's  already  engaged  to  him,  why  risk 
criticism  of  him?"  argued  Joan,  ignoring  Madge's 
flippancy.  "  It's  too  late." 

"  Oh,  she's  going  to  break  it  off  unless  we  all  as- 
sure her  that  we  find  him  brainy,"  Madge  explained 
with  a  laugh.  "  It  seems  her  father  wasn't  brainy 
and  her  mother  was.  Or  else  it  was  the  other  way 
about:  I'm  not  quite  sure.  But  whichever  it  was, 

76 


76  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

it  led  to  ructions.     Myself,  if  he's  at  all  possible  and 
seems  to  care  for  her,  I  intend  to  find  him  brilliant." 

"  And  suppose  she  repeats  her  mother's  experi- 
ence," suggested  Joan. 

"  There  were  the  Norton-Browns,"  answered 
Madge.  "  Impossible  to  have  found  a  more  evenly 
matched  pair.  They  both  write  novels  —  very  good 
novels,  too;  and  got  jealous  of  one  another;  and 
threw  press-notices  at  one  another's  head  all  break- 
fast time;  until  they  separated.  Don't  know  of 
any  recipe  myself  for  being  happy  ever  after  mar- 
riage, except  not  expecting  it." 

"  Or  keeping  out  of  it  altogether,"  added  Joan. 

"  Ever  spent  a  day  at  the  Home  for  Destitute 
Gentle-women  at  East  Sheen?"  demanded  Madge. 

"  Not  yet,"  admitted  Joan.  "  May  have  to,  later 
on." 

"  It  ought  to  be  included  in  every  woman's  edu- 
cation," Madge  continued.  "  It  is  reserved  for 
spinsters  of  over  forty-five.  Susan  Fleming  wrote 
an  article  upon  it  for  the  Teacher's  Friend;  and  spent 
an  afternoon  and  evening  there.  A  month  later  she 
married  a  grocer  with  five  children.  The  only  sound 
suggestion  for  avoiding  trouble  that  I  ever  came 
across  was  in  a  burlesque  of  the  Blue  Bird.  You 
remember  the  scene  where  the  spirits  of  the  children 
are  waiting  to  go  down  to  earth  and  be  made  into 
babies?  Some  one  had  stuck  up  a  notice  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  gangway:  'Don't  get  born.  It  only 
means  worry.'  ' 

Flossie  had  her  dwelling-place  in  a  second  floor 
bed-sitting-room  of  a  lodging  house  in  Queen's 
Square,  Bloomsbury;  but  the  drawing-room  floor  be- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  77 

ing  for  the  moment  vacant,  Flossie  had  persuaded 
her  landlady  to  let  her  give  her  party  there ;  it  seemed 
as  if  fate  approved  of  the  idea.  The  room  was 
fairly  full  when  Joan  arrived.  Flossie  took  her  out 
on  the  landing,  and  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

'You  will  be  honest  with  me,  won't  you?" 
pleaded  Flossie,  "  because  it's  so  important,  and  I 
don't  seem  able  to  think  for  myself.  As  they  say, 
no  man  can  be  his  own  solicitor,  can  he?  Of  course 
I  like  him,  and  all  that  —  very  much.  And  I  really 
believe  he  loves  me.  We  were  children  together 
when  Mummy  was  alive;  and  then  he  had  to  go 
abroad;  and  has  only  just  come  back.  Of  course, 
I've  got  to  think  of  him,  too,  as  he  says.  But  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  don't  want  to  make  a  mistake. 
That  would  be  so  terrible,  for  both  of  us;  and  of 
course  I  am  clever;  and  there  was  poor  Mummy  and 
Daddy.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  them  one  day.  It 
was  so  awfully  sad.  Get  him  into  a  corner  and  talk 
to  him.  You'll  be  able  to  judge  in  a  moment,  you're 
so  wonderful.  He's  quiet  on  the  outside,  but  I  think 
there's  depth  in  him.  We  must  go  in  now." 

She  had  talked  so  rapidly  Joan  felt  as  if  her  hat 
were  being  blown  away.  She  had  difficulty  in  rec- 
ognizing Flossie.  All  the  cock-sure  pertness  had  de- 
parted. She  seemed  just  a  kid. 

Joan  promised  faithfully;  and  Flossie,  standing 
on  tiptoe,  suddenly  kissed  her  and  then  bustled  her 
in. 

Flossie's  young  man  was  standing  near  the  fire 
talking,  or  rather  listening,  to  a  bird-like  little  woman 
in  a  short  white  frock  and  blue  ribbons.  A  sombre 
lady  just  behind  her,  whom  Joan  from  the  distance 


78  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

took  to  be  her  nurse,  turned  out  to  be  her  secretary, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  be  always  on  hand,  prepared  to 
take  down  any  happy  idea  that  might  occur  to  the 
bird-like  little  woman  in  the  course  of  conversation. 
The  bird-like  little  woman  was  Miss  Rose  Tolley,  a 
popular  novelist.  She  was  explaining  to  Flossie's 
young  man,  whose  name  was  Sam  Halliday,  the  rea- 
son for  her  having  written  "  Running  Waters,"  her 
latest  novel. 

"  It  is  daring,"  she  admitted.  "  I  must  be  pre- 
pared for  opposition.  But  it  had  to  be  stated. 

"  I  take  myself  as  typical,"  she  continued. 
"  When  I  was  twenty  I  could  have  loved  you.  You 
were  the  type  of  man  I  did  love." 

Mr.  Halliday,  who  had  been  supporting  the 
weight  of  his  body  upon  his  right  leg,  transferred 
the  burden  to  his  left. 

"  But  now  I'm  thirty-five ;  and  I  couldn't  love  you 
if  I  tried."  She  shook  her  curls  at  him.  "  It  isn't 
your  fault.  It  is  that  I  have  changed.  Suppose  I'd 
married  you?  " 

"  Bit  of  bad  luck  for  both  of  us,"  suggested  Mr. 
Halliday. 

"  A  tragedy,"  Miss  Tolley  corrected  him. 
"  There  are  millions  of  such  tragedies  being  enacted 
around  us  at  this  moment.  Sensitive  women  com- 
pelled to  suffer  the  embraces  of  men  that  they  have 
come  to  loathe.  What's  to  be  done?  " 

Flossie,  who  had  been  hovering  impatient,  broke 
in. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  believe  her,"  she  advised  Mr. 
Halliday.  "  She  loves  you  still.  She's  only  teasing 
you.  This  is  Joan." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  79 

She  introduced  her.  Miss  Tolley  bowed;  and 
allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  away  by  a  lank-haired 
young  man  who  had  likewise  been  waiting  for  an 
opening.  He  represented  the  Uplift  Film  Associa- 
tion of  Chicago,  and  was  wishful  to  know  if  Miss 
Tolley  would  consent  to  altering  the  last  chapter 
and  so  providing  "  Running  Waters  "  with  a  happy 
ending.  He  pointed  out  the  hopelessness  of  it  in 
its  present  form,  for  film  purposes. 

The  discussion  was  brief.  "  Then  I'll  send  your 
agent  the  contract  tomorrow,"  Joan  overheard  him 
say  a  minute  later. 

Mr.  Sam  Halliday  she  liked  at  once.  He  was 
a  clean-shaven,  square-jawed  young  man,  with  quiet 
eyes  and  a  pleasant  voice. 

"  Try  and  find  me  brainy,"  Jie  whispered  to  her,  as 
soon  as  Flossie  was  out  of  earshot.  '  Talk  to  me 
about  China.  I'm  quite  intelligent  on  China." 

They  both  laughed,  and  then  shot  a  guilty  glance 
in  Flossie's  direction. 

"  Do  the  women  really  crush  their  feet?  "  asked 
Joan. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  All  those  who  have  no 
use  for  them.  About  one  per  cent,  of  the  population. 
To  listen  to  Miss  Tolley  you  would  think  that  half 
the  women  wanted  a  new  husband  every  ten  years. 
It's  always  the  one  per  cent,  that  gets  them- 
selves talked  about.  The  other  ninety-nine  are  too 
busy." 

'  You  are  young  for  a  philosopher,"  said  Joan. 

He  laughed.  "  I  told  you  I'd  be  all  right  if  you 
started  me  on  China,"  he  said. 

"Why  are  you  marrying  Flossie?"  Joan  asked 


80  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

him.  She  thought  his  point  of  view  would  be  in- 
teresting. 

"  Not  sure  I  am  yet,"  he  answered  with  a  grin. 
"  It  depends  upon  how  I  get  through  this  evening." 
He  glanced  round  the  room.  "  Have  I  got  to  pass 
all  this  crowd,  I  wonder?  "  he  added. 

Joan's  eyes  followed.  It  was  certainly  an  odd 
collection.  Flossie,  in  her  hunt  for  brains,  had  is- 
sued her  invitations  broadcast;  and  her  fate  had  been 
that  of  the  Charity  concert.  Not  all  the  stars  upon 
whoiyi  she  had  most  depended  had  turned  up.  On 
the  other  hand  not  a  single  freak  had  failed  her.  At 
the  moment,  the  centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by 
a  gentleman  and  two  ladies  in  classical  drapery. 
They  were  holding  hands  in  an  attitude  suggestive 
of  a  bas-relief.  Joan  remembered  them,  having  seen 
them  on  one  or  two  occasions  wandering  in  the 
King's  Road,  Chelsea;  still  maintaining,  as  far  as 
the  traffic  would  allow,  the  bas-relief  suggestion;  and 
generally  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  children,  ever 
hopeful  that  at  the  next  corner  they  would  stop  and 
do  something  really  interesting.  They  belonged  to 
a  society  whose  object  was  to  lure  the  London  pub- 
lic by  the  force  of  example  towards  the  adoption  of 
the  early  Greek  fashions  and  the  simpler  Greek  at- 
titudes. A  friend  of  Flossie's  had  thrown  in  her 
lot  with  them,  but  could  never  be  induced  to  abandon 
her  umbrella.  They  also,  as  Joan  told  herself,  were 
reformers.  Near  to  them  was  a  picturesque  gentle- 
man with  a  beard  down  to  his  waist  whose  "  stunt  " 
—  as  Flossie  would  have  termed  it  —  was  hygienic 
clothing;  it  seemed  to  contain  an  undue  proportion 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  81 

of  fresh  air.  There  were  ladies  in  coats  and 
stand-up  collars,  and  gentlemen  with  ringlets. 
More  than  one  of  the  guests  would  have  been  bet- 
ter, though  perhaps  not  happier,  for  a  bath. 

"  I  fancy  that's  the  idea,"  said  Joan.  "  What 
will  you  do  if  you  fail?  Go  back  to  China?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  And  take  her  with  me. 
Poor  little  girl." 

Joan  rather  resented  his  tone. 

"  We  are  not  all  alike,"  she  remarked.  "  Some 
of  us  are  quite  sane." 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes.  "  You  are," 
he  said.  "  I  have  been  reading  your  articles.  They 
are  splendid.  I'm  going  to  help." 

"  How  can  you?  "  she  said.  "  I  mean,  how  will 
you?" 

"  Shipping  is  my  business,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going 
to  help  sailor  men.  See  that  they  have  somewhere 
decent  to  go  to,  and  don't  get  robbed.  And  then 
there  are  the  Lascars,  poor  devils.  Nobody  ever 
takes  their  part." 

"How  did  you  come  across  them?"  she  asked. 
"  The  articles,  I  mean.  Did  Flo  give  them  to 
you?" 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  Just  chance.  Caught 
sight  of  your  photo." 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said.  "  If  it  had  been  the  photo 
of  a  woman  with  a  bony  throat  and  a  beaky  nose 
would  you  have  read  them?  " 

He  thought  a  moment.  "  Guess  not,"  he  an- 
swered. "  You're  just  as  bad,"  he  continued. 
"  Isn't  it  the  pale-faced  young  clergyman  with  the 


82  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

wavy  hair  and  the  beautiful  voice  that  you  all  flock 
to  hear?  No  getting  away  from  nature.  But  it 
wasn't  only  that."  He  hesitated. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  she  said. 

"  You  looked  so  young,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  al- 
ways had  the  idea  that  it  was  up  to  the  old  people 
to  put  the  world  to  rights  —  that  all  I  had  to  do  was 
to  look  after  myself.  It  came  to  me  suddenly  while 
you  were  talking  to  me  —  I  mean  while  I  was  reading 
you:  that  if  you  were  worrying  yourself  about  it,  I'd 
got  to  come  in,  too  —  that  it  would  be  mean  of  me 
not  to.  It  wasn't  like  being  preached  to.  It  was 
somebody  calling  for  help." 

Instinctively  she  held  out  her  hand  and  he  grasped 
it. 

Flossie  came  up  at  the  same  instant.  She  wanted 
to  introduce  him  to  Miss  Lavery,  who  had  just  ar- 
rived. 

"  Hullo !  "  she  said.  "  Are  you  two  concluding  a 
bargain?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Joan.  ;'  We  are  founding  the 
League  of  Youth.  You've  got  to  be  in  it.  We  are 
going  to  establish  branches  all  round  the  world." 

Flossie's  young  man  was  whisked  away.  Joan, 
who  had  seated  herself  in  a  small  chair,  was  alone 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Miss  Tolley  had  chanced  upon  a  Human  Docu- 
ment, with  the  help  of  which  she  was  hopeful  of 
starting  a  "  Press  Controversy  "  concerning  the  mor- 
ality, or  otherwise,  of  "  Running  Waters."  The 
secretary  stood  just  behind  her,  taking  notes.  They 
had  drifted  quite  close.  Joan  could  not  help  over- 
hearing. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  83 

"  It  always  seemed  to  me  immoral,  the  marriage 
ceremony,"  the  Human  Document  was  explaining. 
She  was  a  thin,  sallow  woman,  with  an  untidy  head 
and  restless  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  always  seeking 
something  to  look  at  and  never  finding  it.  "  How 
can  we  pledge  the  future?  To  bind  oneself  to  live 
with  a  man  when  perhaps  we  have  ceased  to  care  for 
him;  it's  hideous." 

Miss  Tolley  murmured  agreement. 

"  Our  love  was  beautiful,"  continued  the  Human 
Document,  eager,  apparently  to  relate  her  experi- 
ence for  the  common  good;  "  just  because  it  was  a 
free  gift.  We  were  not  fettered  to  one  another. 
At  any  moment  either  of  us  could  have  walked  out  of 
the  house.  The  idea  never  occurred  to  us;  not  for 
years  —  five,  to  be  exact." 

The  secretary,  at  a  sign  from  Miss  Tolley,  made 
a  memorandum  of  it. 

"  And  then  did  your  feelings  towards  him  change 
suddenly?"  questioned  Miss  Tolley. 

"  No,"  explained  the  Human  Document,  in  the 
same  quick,  even  tones;  "  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
I  was  not  conscious  of  any  alteration  in  my  own  at- 
titude. But  he  felt  the  need  of  more  solitude  — 
for  his  development.  We  parted  quite  good 
friends." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Tolley.  "  And  were  there  any 
children?" 

"  Only  two,"  answered  the  Human  Document, 
"  both  girls." 

'What  has  become  of  them?"  persisted  Miss 
Tolley. 

The  Human  Document  looked  offended.     "  You 


84  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

do  not  think  I  would  have  permitted  any  power  on 
earth  to  separate  them  from  me,  do  you?  "  she  an- 
swered. "  I  said  to  him,  '  They  are  mine,  mine. 
Where  I  go,  they  go.  Where  I  stay,  they  stay.' 
He  saw  the  justice  of  my  argument." 

"  And  they  are  with  you  now?  "  concluded  Miss 
Tolley. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  them,"  the  Human  Doc- 
ument insisted.  "  Such  dear,  magnetic  creatures. 
I  superintend  their  entire  education  myself.  We 
have  a  cottage  in  Surrey.  It's  rather  a  tight  fit. 
You  see,  there  are  seven  of  us  now.  But  the  three 
girls  can  easily  turn  in  together  for  a  night.  Abner 
will  be  delighted." 

"  Abner  is  your  second?  "  suggested  Miss  Tolley. 

"  My  third,"  the  Human  Document  corrected  her. 
"  After  Eustace,  I  married  Ivanoff.  I  say  '  mar- 
ried '  because  I  regard  it  as  the  holiest  form  of  mar- 
-iage.  He  had  to  return  to  his  own  country.  There 
was  a  political  movement  on  foot.  He  felt  it  his 
duty  to  go.  I  want  you  particularly  to  meet  the 
boy.  He  will  interest  you." 

Miss  Tolley  appeared  to  be  getting  muddled. 
"  Whose  boy?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Ivanoff's,"  explained  the  Human  Document. 
"  He  was  our  only  child." 

Flossie  appeared,  towing  a  white-haired,  distin- 
guished-looking man,  a  Mr.  Folk.  She  introduced 
him  and  immediately  disappeared.  Joan  wished  she 
had  been  left  alone  a  little  longer.  She  would  like 
to  have  heard  more.  Especially  was  she  curious 
concerning  Abner,  the  lady's  third.  Would  the 
higher  moral  law  compel  him,  likewise,  to  leave  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  85 

poor  lady  saddled  with  another  couple  of  children? 
Or  would  she,  on  this  occasion,  get  in  —  or  rather, 
get  off  first?  Her  own  fancy  was  to  back  Abner. 
She  did  catch  just  one  sentence  before  Miss  Tolley, 
having  obtained  more  food  for  reflection  than  per- 
haps she  wanted,  signalled  to  her  secretary  that  the 
note-book  might  be  closed. 

'  Woman's  right  to  follow  the  dictates  of  her  own 
heart,  uncontrolled  by  any  law,"  the  Human  Docu- 
ment was  insisting:  "  That  is  one  of  the  first  things 
we  must  fight  for." 

Mr.  Folk  was  a  well-known  artist.  He  lived  in 
Paris. 

'  You  are  wonderfully  like  your  mother,"  he  told 
Joan.  "  In  appearance,  I  mean,"  he  added.  "  I 
knew  her  when  she  was  Miss  Caxton.  I  acted  with 
her  in  America." 

Joan  made  a  swift  effort  to  hide  her  surprise. 
She  had  never  heard  of  her  mother  having  been  upon 
the  stage. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  been  an  actor," 
she  answered. 

"  I  wasn't  really,"  explained  Mr.  Folk.  "  I  just 
walked  and  talked  naturally.  It  made  rather  a  sen- 
sation at  the  time.  Your  mother  was  a  genius. 
You  have  never  thought  of  going  on  the  stage  your- 
self? " 

"  No,"  said  Joan.  "  I  don't  think  I've  got  what 
you  call  the  artistic  temperament.  I  have  never  felt 
drawn  towards  anything  of  that  sort." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said.  "  You  could  hardly  be 
your  mother's  daughter  without  it." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Joan.     "  What  was  my  mother 


86  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

like?  I  can  only  remember  her  as  more  or  less  of 
an  invalid." 

He  did  not  reply  to  her  question.  "  Master  or 
Mistress  Eminent  Artist,"  he  said;  "intends  to  re- 
tire from  his  or  her  particular  stage,  whatever  it 
may  be.  That  paragraph  ought  always  to  be  put 
among  the  obituary  notices." 

"What's  your  line?"  he  asked  her.  "I  take 
it  you  have  one  by  your  being  here.  Besides,  I  am 
sure  you  have.  I  am  an  old  fighter.  I  can  tell  the 
young  soldier.  What's  your  regiment?" 

Joan  laughed.  "  I'm  a  drummer  boy,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I  beat  my  drum  each  week  in  a  Sunday 
newspaper,  hoping  the  lads  will  follow." 

"  You  feel  you  must  beat  that  drum,"  he  sug- 
gested. "  Beat  it  louder  and  louder  and  louder  till 
all  the  world  shall  hear  it." 

"  Yes,"  Joan  agreed,  "  I  think  that  does  describe 


me." 


He  nodded.  "  I  thought  you  were  an  artist,"  he 
said.  "  Don't  let  them  ever  take  your  drum  away 
from  you.  You'll  go  to  pieces  and  get  into  mischief 
without  it. 

"  I  know  an  old  actress,"  he  continued.  "  She's 
the  mother  of  four.  They  are  all  on  the  stage  and 
they've  all  made  their  mark.  The  youngest  was 
born  in  her  dressing-room,  just  after  the  curtain  had 
fallen.  She  was  playing  the  Nurse  to  your  mother's 
Juliet.  She  is  still  the  best  Nurse  that  I  know. 
'  Jack's  always  worrying  me  to  chuck  it  and  devote 
myself  to  the  children,'  she  confided  to  me  one  eve- 
ning, while  she  was  waiting  for  her  cue.  '  But,  as  I 
tell  him,  I'm  more  helpful  to  them  being  with  them 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  87 

half  the  day  alive  than  all  the  day  dead.'  That's  an 
anecdote  worth  remembering,  when  your  time  comes. 
If  God  gives  woman  a  drum  he  doesn't  mean  man  to 
take  it  away  from  her.  She  hasn't  got  to  be  play- 
ing it  for  twenty-four  hours  a  day.  I'd  like  you  to 
have  seen  your  mother's  Cordelia." 

Flossie  was  tacking  her  way  towards  them.  Joan 
acted  on  impulse.  "  I  wish  you'd  give  me  your  ad- 
dress," she  said,  "  where  I  could  write  to  you.  Or 
perhaps  you  would  not  mind  my  coming  and  seeing 
you  one  day.  I  would  like  you  to  tell  me  more  about 
my  mother." 

He  gave  her  his  address  in  Paris  where  he  was  re- 
turning almost  immediately. 

"  Do  come,"  he  said.  "  It  will  take  me  back 
thirty-three  years.  I  proposed  to  your  mother  on 
La  Grande  Terrasse  at  St.  Germain.  We  will  walk 
there.  I'm  still  a  bachelor."  He  laughed,  and, 
kissing  her  hand,  allowed  himself  to  be  hauled  away 
by  Flossie,  in  exchange  for  Mrs.  Phillips,  for  whom 
Miss  Lavery  had  insisted  on  an  invitation. 

Joan  had  met  Mrs.  Phillips  several  times;  and 
once,  on  the  stairs,  had  stopped  and  spoken  to  her; 
but  had  never  been  introduced  to  her  formally  till 
now. 

"  We  have  been  meaning  to  call  on  you  so  often," 
panted  Mrs.  Phillips.  The  room  was  crowded  and 
the  exertion  of  squeezing  her  way  through  had 
winded  the  poor  lady. 

;'  We  take  so  much  interest  in  your  articles.  My 
husband  —  "  she  paused  for  a  second,  before  ven- 
turing upon  the  word,  and  the  aitch  came  out  some- 
what over-aspirated  — "  reads  them  most  reli- 


88  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

giously.     You  must  come  and  dine  with  us  one  eve- 
ning." 

Joan  answered  that  she  would  be  very  pleased. 
"  I  will  find  out  when  Robert  is  free  and  run  up 
and  let  you  know,"  she  continued.  "  Of  course, 
there  are  so  many  demands  upon  him,  especially  dur- 
ing this  period  of  national  crisis,  that  I  spare  him 
all  the  social  duties  that  I  can.  But  I  shall  insist 
on  his  making  an  exception  in  your  case." 

Joan  murmured  her  sense  of  favour,  but  hoped 
she  would  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  more 
pressing  calls  upon  Mr.  Phillips's  time. 

"  It  will  do  him  good,"  answered  Mrs.  Phillips; 
"  getting  away  from  them  all  for  an  hour  or  two. 
I  don't  see  much  of  him  myself." 

She  glanced  round  and  lowered  her  voice. 
"  They  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  that  you're  a  B.A." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Joan.  "  One  goes  in  for  it 
more  out  of  vanity,  I'm  afraid,  than  for  any  real 
purpose  that  it  serves." 

"  I  took  one  or  two  prizes  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips.  "  But,  of  course,  one  forgets  things.  I 
was  wondering  if  you  would  mind  if  I  ran  up  occa- 
sionally to  ask  you  a  question.  Of  course,  as  you 
know,  my  'usband  'as  'ad  so  few  advantages  " —  the 
lady's  mind  was  concerned  with  more  important 
matters,  and  the  aspirates,  on  this  occasion,  got  them- 
selves neglected  — "  It  is  wonderful  what  he  'as  done 
without  them.  But  if,  now  and  then,  I  could  'elp 

him " 

There  was  something  about  the  poor,  foolish 
painted  face,  as  it  looked  up  pleadingly,  that  gave 
it  a  momentary  touch  of  beauty. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  89 

"  Do,"  said  Joan,  speaking  earnestly.  "  I  shall 
be  so  very  pleased  if  you  will." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  woman.  Miss  Lavery 
came  up  in  a  hurry  to  introduce  her  to  Miss  Tolley. 
"  I  am  telling  all  my  friends  to  read  your  articles," 
she  added,  resuming  the  gracious  patroness,  as  she 
bowed  her  adieus. 

Joan  was  alone  again  for  a  while.  A  handsome 
girl,  with  her  hair  cut  short  and  parted  at  the  side, 
was  discussing  diseases  of  the  spine  with  a  curly- 
headed  young  man  in  a  velvet  suit.  The  gentleman 
was  describing  some  of  the  effects  in  detail.  Joan 
felt  there  was  danger  of  her  being  taken  ill  if  she  lis- 
tened any  longer;  and  seeing  Madge's  brother  near 
the  door,  and  unoccupied,  she  made  her  way  across 
to  him. 

Niel  Singleton,  or  Keeley,  as  he  called  himself 
upon  the  stage,  was  quite  unlike  his  sister.  He  was 
short  and  plump,  with  a  preternaturally  solemn  face, 
contradicted  by  small  twinkling  eyes.  He  motioned 
Joan  to  a  chair  and  told  her  to  keep  quiet  and  not 
disturb  the  meeting. 

"  Is  he  brainy?  "  he  whispered  after  a  minute. 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Joan. 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  if  you  liked  him,"  he  explained 
to  her.  "  I  asked  you  if  he  was  brainy.  I'm  not 
too  sure  that  you  like  brainy  men." 

1  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Joan.     "  I  like  you,  sometimes." 

"  Now,  none  of  that,"  he  said  severely.  "  It's  no 
good  your  thinking  of  me.  I'm  wedded  to  my  art. 
We  are  talking  about  Mr.  Halliday." 

;'  What  does  Madge  think  of  him?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Madge  has  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  her 


90  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

judgment  is  not  to  be  relied  upon,"  he  said, 
suppose  you  couldn't  answer  a  straight  question,  if 
you  tried." 

"  Don't  be   so  harsh  with   me,"    pleaded   Joan 
meekly,     "  I'm  trying  to  think.     Yes,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  decidedly  he's  got  brains." 

"  Enough  for  the  two  of  them?  "  demanded  Mr. 
Singleton.  "  Because  he  will  want  them.  Now 
think  before  you  speak." 

Joan  considered.  "  Yes,"  she  answered.  ''  I 
should  say  he's  just  the  man  to  manage  her." 

"  Then  it's  settled,"  he  said.  "  We  must  save 
her." 

"  Save  her  from  what?  "  demanded  Joan. 

"From  his  saying  to  himself:  'This  is  Flossie's 
idea  of  a  party.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that,  if  I 
marry  her,  I  am  letting  myself  in  for.'  If  he  hasn't 
broken  off  the  engagement  already,  we  may  be  in 
time." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  piano.  "  Tell  Madge  I 
want  her,"  he  whispered.  He  struck  a  few  notes; 
and  then  in  a  voice  that  drowned  every  other  sound 
in  the  room,  struck  up  a  comic  song. 

The  effect  was  magical. 

He  followed  it  up  with  another.  This  one  with 
a  chorus,  consisting  chiefly  of  "  Umpty  Umpty 
Umpty  Umpty  Ay,"  which  was  vociferously  encored. 

By  the  time  it  was  done  with,  Madge  had  discov- 
ered a  girl  who  could  sing  "  Three  Little  Pigs !  "  and 
a  sad,  pale-faced  gentleman  who  told  stories.  At 
the  end  of  one  of  them  Madge's  brother  spoke  to 
Joan  in  a  tone  more  of  sorrow  than  of  anger. 

"  Hardly  the  sort  of  anecdote  that  a  truly  noble 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  91 

and  high-minded  young  woman  would  have  received 
with  laughter,"  he  commented. 

;'  Did  I  laugh?"  said  Joan. 

'  Your  having  done  so  unconsciously  only  makes 
the  matter  worse,"  observed  Mr.  Singleton.  "  I 
had  hoped  it  emanated  from  politeness,  not  enjoy- 
ment." 

"  Don't  tease  her,"  said  Madge.  "  She's  having 
an  evening  off." 

Joan  and  the  Singletons  were  the  last  to  go. 
They  promised  to  show  Mr.  Halliday  a  short  cut  to 
his  hotel  in  Holborn. 

"  Have  you  thanked  Miss  Lessing  for  a  pleasant 
evening?  "  asked  Mr.  Singleton,  turning  to  Mr.  Hal- 
liday. 

He  laughed  and  put  his  arm  around  her.  "  Poor 
little  woman,"  he  said.  "  You're  looking  so  tired. 
It  was  jolly  at  the  end."  He  kissed  her. 

He  had  passed  through  the  swing  doors;  and  they 
were  standing  on  the  pavement  waiting  for  Joan's 
bus. 

"  Why  did  we  all  like  him?  "  asked  Joan.  "  Even 
Miss  Lavery.  There's  nothing  extraordinary  about 
him." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is,"  said  Madge.  "  Love  has  lent 
him  gilded  armour.  From  his  helmet  waves  her 
crest,"  she  quoted.  "  Most  men  look  fine  in  that 
costume.  Pity  they  can't  always  wear  it." 

The  conductor  seemed  impatient.  Joan  sprang 
upon  the  step  and  waved  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOAN  was  making  herself  a  cup  of  tea  when  there 
came  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  Mrs.  Phillips. 

"  I  heard  you  come  in,"  she  said.  "  You're  not 
busy,  are  you?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Joan.  "  I  hope  you're  not. 
I'm  generally  in  about  this  time;  and  it's  always  nice 
to  gossip  over  a  dish  of  tea." 

"Why  do  you  say  *  dish'  of  tea?"  asked  Mrs. 
Phillips,  as  she  lowered  herself  with  evident  satis- 
faction into  the  easy  chair  Joan  placed  for  her. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  laughed  Joan.  "  Dr.  John- 
son always  talked  of  a  *  dish '  of  tea.  Gives  it  a 
literary  flavour." 

"  I've  heard  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  He's 
worth  reading,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Well,  he  talked  more  amusingly  than  he  wrote," 
explained  Joan.  "  Get  Boswell's  Life  of  him.  Or 
I'll  lend  you  mine,"  she  added,  "  if  you'll  be  careful 
of  it.  You'll  find  all  the  passages  marked  that  are 
best  worth  remembering.  At  least,  I  think  so." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  You  see,  as  the 
wife  of  a  public  man,  I  get  so  little  time  for  study." 

"Is  it  settled  yet?"  asked  Joan.  "Are  they 
going  to  make  room  for  him  in  the  Cabinet?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  Oh, 
of  course,  I  want  him  to,"  she  corrected  herself. 
"  And  he  must,  of  course,  if  the  King  insists  upon 

92 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  93 

it.  But  I  wish  it  hadn't  all  come  with  such  a  whirl. 
What  shall  I  have  to  do,  do  you  think?  " 

Joan  was  pouring  out  the  tea.  "  Oh,  nothing," 
she  answered,  "  but  just  be  agreeable  to  the  right 
people.  He'll  tell  you  who  they  are.  And  take 
care  of  him." 

"  I  wish  I'd  taken  more  interest  in  politics  when 
I  was  young,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  Of  course, 
when  I  was  a  girl,  women  weren't  supposed  to." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  shouldn't  worry  about  them, 
if  I  were  you,"  Joan  advised  her.  "  Let  him  for- 
get them  when  he's  with  you.  A  man  can  have  too 
much  of  a  good  thing,"  she  laughed. 

"  I  wonder  if  you're  right,"  mused  Mrs.  Phillips. 
"  He  does  often  say  that  he'd  just  as  soon  I  didn't 
talk  about  them." 

Joan  shot  a  glance  from  over  her  cup.  The  poor 
puzzled  face  was  staring  into  the  fire.  Joan  could 
almost  hear  him  saying  it. 

"  I'm  sure  I  am,"  she  said.  "  Make  home-com- 
ing a  change  to  him.  As  you  said  yourself  the  other 
evening:  It's  good  for  him  to  get  away  from  it  all, 
now  and  then." 

"  I  must  try,"  agreed  Mrs.  Phillips,  looking  up. 
"  What  sort  of  things  ought  I  to  talk  to  him  about, 
do  you  think?  " 

Joan  gave  an  inward  sign.  Hadn't  the  poor  lady 
any  friends  of  her  own.  "  Oh,  almost  anything," 
she  answered  vaguely:  "  so  long  as  it's  cheerful  and 
non-political.  What  used  you  to  talk  about  before 
he  became  a  great  man?  " 

There  came  a  wistful  look  into  the  worried  eyes. 
"  Oh,  it  was  all  so  different  then,"  she  said.  "  'E 


94  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

just  liked  to  —  you  know.  We  didn't  seem  to  'ave 
to  talk.  'E  was  a  rare  one  to  tease.  I  didn't  know 
'ow  clever  'e  was,  then." 

It  seemed  a  difficult  case  to  advise  upon.  "  How 
long  have  you  been  married?  "  Joan  asked. 

"  Fifteen  years,"  she  answered.  "  I  was'  a  bit 
older  than  'im.  But  I've  never  looked  my  age,  they 
tell  me.  Lord,  what  a  boy  'e  was !  Swept  you  off 
your  feet,  like.  'E  wasn't  the  only  one.  I'd  got 
a  way  with  me,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  the  men  seemed 
to  think  so.  There  was  always  a  few  'anging  about. 
Like  flies  round  a  'oney-pot,  Mother  used  to  say." 
She  giggled.  "  But  'e  wouldn't  take  No  for  an  an- 
swer. And  I  didn't  want  to  give  it  'im,  neither.  I 
was  gone  on  'im,  right  enough.  No  use  saying  I 
wasn't." 

"  You  must  be  glad  you  didn't  say  No,"  suggested 
Joan. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  'e's  got  on.  I  always 
think  of  that  little  poem,  '  Lord  Burleigh,'  "  she  con- 
tinued; "  wherrever  I  get  worrying  about  myself. 
Ever  read  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Joan.  "  He  was  a  landscape 
painter,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  I  little 
thought  I  was  letting  myself  in  for  being  the  wife 
of  a  big  pot  when  Bob  Phillips  came  along  in  'is  min- 
er's jacket." 

"  You'll  soon  get  used  to  it,"  Joan  told  her. 
"  The  great  thing  is  not  to  be  afraid  of  one's  fate, 
whatever  it  is;  but  just  to  do  one's  best."  It  was 
rather  like  talking  to  a  child. 

"  You're  the  right  sort  to  put  'eart  into  a  body. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  95 

I'm  glad  I  came  up,"  said  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  I  get  a 
bit  down  in  the  mouth  sometimes  when  'e  goes  off 
into  one  of  'is  brown  studies,  and  I  don't  seem  to 
know  what  'e's  thinking  about.  But  it  don't  last 
long.  I  was  always  one  of  the  light-'earted  ones." 

They  discussed  life  on  two  thousand  a  year;  the 
problems  it  would  present;  and  Mrs.  Phillips  became 
more  cheerful.  Joan  laid  herself  out  to  be  friendly. 
She  hoped  to  establish  an  influence  over  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips that  should  be  for  the  poor  lady's  good;  and, 
as  she  felt  instinctively,  for  poor  Phillips's  also.  It 
was  not  an  unpleasing  face.  Underneath  the  paint, 
it  was  kind  and  womanly.  Joan  was  sure  he  would 
like  it  better  clean.  A  few  months'  attention  to  diet 
would  make  a  decent  figure  of  her  and  improve  her 
wind.  Joan  watched  her  spreading  the  butter  a  quar- 
ter of  an  inch  thick  upon  her  toast  and  restrained 
with  difficulty  the  impulse  to  take  it  away  from  her. 
And  her  clothes !  Joan  had  seen  guys  carried 
through  the  streets  on  the  fifth  of  November  that 
were  less  obtrusive. 

She  remembered  as  she  was  taking  her  leave,  what 
she  had  come  for:  which  was  to  invite  Joan  to  din- 
ner on  the  following  Friday. 

"  It's  just  a  homely  affair,"  she  explained.  She 
had  recovered  her  form  and  was  now  quite  the  lady 
again.  "Two  other  guests  beside  yourself:  a  Mr. 
Airlie  —  I  am  sure  you  will  like  him.  He's  so  dil- 
letanty  —  and  Mr.  McKean.  He's  the  young  man 
upstairs.  Have  you  met  him?  " 

Joan  hadn't  except  once  on  the  stairs  when,  to 
avoid  having  to  pass  her,  he  had  gone  down  again 
and  out  into  the  street.  From  the  doorstep  she  had 


96 

caught  sight  of  his  disappearing  coat-tails  round  the 
corner.  Yielding  to  impishness,  she  had  run  after 
him,  and  his  expression  of  blank  horror  when,  glanc- 
ing over  his  shoulder,  he  found  her  walking  abstract- 
edly three  yards  behind  him,  had  gladdened  all  her 
evening. 

Joan  recounted  the  episode  —  so  far  as  the  door- 
step. "  He  tried  to  be  shy  with  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips,  "  but  I  wouldn't  let  him.  I  chipped  him 
out  of  it.  If  he's  going  to  write  plays,  as  I  told 
him,  he  will  have  to  get  over  his  fear  of  a  petticoat." 

She  offered  her  cheek,  and  Joan  kissed  it,  some- 
what gingerly. 

'  You  won't  mind  Robert  not  wearing  evening 
dress,"  she  said.  "  He  never  will  if  he  can  help 
it.  I  shall  just  slip  on  a  semi-toilette  myself." 

Joan  had  difficulty  in  deciding  on  her  own  frock. 
Her  four  evening  dresses,  as  she  walked  round  them, 
spread  out  upon  the  bed,  all  looked  too  imposing, 
for  what  Mrs.  Phillips  had  warned  her  would  be  a 
"  homely  affair."  She  had  one  other,  a  greyish- 
fawn,  with  sleeves  to  the  elbow,  that  she  had  had 
made  expressly  for  public  dinners  and  political  At 
Homes.  But  that  would  be  going  to  the  opposite 
extreme,  and  mrght  seem  discourteous  —  to  her  host- 
ess. Besides,  "  mousey  "  colours  didn't  really  suit 
her.  They  gave  her  a  curious  sense  of  being  af- 
fected. In  the  end  she  decided  to  risk  a  black  crepe- 
de-chine,  square  cut,  with  a  girdle  of  gold  embroid- 
ery. There  couldn't  be  anything  quieter  than  black, 
and  the  gold  embroidery  was  of  the  simplest.  She 
would  wear  it  without  any  jewellery  whatever :  except 
just  a  star  in  her  hair.  The  result,  as  she  viewed 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  97 

the  effect  in  the  long  glass,  quite  satisfied  her.  Per- 
haps the  jewelled  star  did  scintillate  rather.  It  had 
belonged  to  her  mother.  But  her  hair  was  so  full 
of  shadows :  it  wanted  something  to  relieve  it.  Also 
she  approved  the  curved  line  of  her  bare  arms.  It 
was  certainly  very  beautiful,  a  woman's  arm.  She 
took  her  gloves  in  her  -hand  and  went  down. 

Mr.  Phillips  was  not  yet  in  the  room.  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips, in  apple-green  with  an  ostrich  feather  in  her 
hair,  greeted  her  effusively,  and  introduced  her  to 
her  fellow  guests.  Mr.  Airlie  was  a  slight,  elegant 
gentleman  of  uncertain  age,  with  sandy  hair  and 
beard  cut  Vandyke  fashion.  He  asked  Joan's  per- 
mission to  continue  his  cigarette. 

"  You  have  chosen  the  better  part,"  he  informed 
her,  on  her  granting  it.  "  When  I'm  not  smoking, 
I'm  talking." 

Mr.  McKean  shook  her  hand  vigorously  without 
looking  at  her. 

"  And  this  is  Hilda,"  concluded  Mrs.  Phillips. 
"  She  ought  to  be  in  bed  if  she  hadn't  a  naughty 
Daddy  who  spoils  her." 

A  lank,  black-haired  girl,  with  a  pair  of  burning 
eyes  looking  out  of  a  face  that,  but  for  the  thin  line 
of  the  lips,  would  have  been  absolutely  colourless, 
rose  suddenly  from  behind  a  bowl  of  artificial  flow- 
ers. Joan  could  not  suppress  a  slight  start;  she  had 
not  noticed  her  on  entering.  The  girl  came  slowly 
forward,  and  Joan  felt  as  if  the  uncanny  eyes  were 
eating  her  up.  She  made  an  effort  and  held  out  her 
hand  with  a  smile,  and  the  girl's  long  thin  fingers 
closed  on  it  in  a  pressure  that  hurt.  She  did  not 
speak. 


98  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

,  "  She  only  came  back  yesterday  for  the  half- 
term,"  explained  Mrs.  Phillips.  "  There's  no  keep- 
ing her  away  from  her  books.  'Twas  her  own  wish 
to  be  sent  to  boarding-school.  How  would  you  like 
to  go  to  Girton  and  be  a  B.A.  like  Miss  Allway?  " 
she  asked,  turning  to  the  child. 

Phillips's  entrance  saved  the  need  of  a  reply.  To 
the  evident  surprise  of  his  wife  he  was  in  evening 
clothes. 

"  Hulloa.     You've  got  'em  on,"  she  said. 

He  laughed.  "  I  shall  have  to  get  used  to  them 
sooner  or  later,"  he  said. 

Joan  felt  relieved  —  she  hardly  knew  why  —  that 
he  bore  the  test.  It  was  a  well-built,  athletic  frame, 
and  he  had  gone  to  a  good  tailor.  He  looked  taller 
in  them;  and  the  strong,  clean-shaven  face  less 
rugged. 

Joan  sat  next  to  him  at  the  round  dinner-table  with 
the  child  the  other  side  of  him.  She  noticed  that  he 
ate  as  far  as  possible  with  his  right  hand  —  his  hands 
were  large,  but  smooth  and  well  shaped  —  his  left 
remaining  under  the  cloth,  beneath  which  the  child's 
right  hand,  when  free,  would  likewise  disappear. 
For  a  while  the  conversation  consisted  chiefly  of 
anecdotes  by  Mr.  Airlie.  There  were  few  public 
men  and  women  about  whom  he  did  not  know  some- 
thing to  their  disadvantage.  Joan,  listening,  found 
herself  repeating  the  experience  of  a  night  or  two 
previous,  when,  during  a  performance  of  Hamlet, 
Niel  Singleton,  who  was  playing  the  grave-digger, 
had  taken  her  behind  the  scenes.  Hamlet,  the  King 
of  Denmark  and  the  Ghost  were  sharing  a  bottle  of 
champagne  in  the  Ghost's  dressing-room;  it  hap- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  99 

pened  to  be  the  Ghost's  birthday.  On  her  return 
to  the  front  of  the  house,  her  interest  in  the  play  was 
gone.  It  was  absurd  that  it  should  be  so;  but  the 
fact  remained. 

Mr.  Airlie  had  lunched  the  day  before  with  a 
leonine  old  gentleman  who  every  Sunday  morning 
thundered  forth  Social  Democracy  to  enthusiastic 
multitudes  on  Tower  Hill.  Joan  had  once  listened 
to  him  and  had  almost  been  converted:  he  was  so 
tremendously  in  earnest.  She  now  learnt  that  he 
lived  in  Curzon  Street,  Mayfair,  and  filled,  in  private 
life,  the  perfectly  legitimate  calling  of  a  company 
promoter  in  partnership  with  a  Dutch  Jew.  His 
latest  prospectus  dwelt  upon  the  profits  to  be  derived 
from  an  amalgamation  of  the  leading  tanning  indus- 
tries: by  means  of  which  the  price  of  leather  could 
be  enormously  increased. 

It  was  utterly  illogical;  but  her  interest  in  the  prin- 
ciples of  Social  Democracy  was  gone. 

A  very  little  while  ago,  Mr.  Airlie,  in  his  capacity 
of  second  cousin  to  one  of  the  ladies  concerned,  a 
charming  girl  but  impulsive,  had  been  called  upon 
to  attend  a  family  council  of  a  painful  nature.  The 
gentleman's  name  took  Joan's  breath  away:  it  was 
the  name  of  one  of  her  heroes,  an  eminent  writer: 
one  might  almost  say  prophet.  Sh'e  had  hitherto 
read  his  books  with  grateful  reverence.  They  pic- 
tured for  her  the  world  made  perfect;  and  explained 
to  her  just  precisely  how  it  was  to  be  accomplished. 
But,  as  far  as  his  own  particular  corner  of  it  was 
concerned,  he  seemed  to  have  made  a  sad  mess  of 
it.  Human  nature  of  quite  an  old-fashioned  pat- 
tern had  crept  in  and  spoilt  all  his  own  theories. 


100  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Of  course  it  was  unreasonable.  The  sign-post 
may  remain  embedded  in  weeds:  it  notwithstanding 
points  the  way  to  the  fair  city.  She  told  herself  this, 
but  it  left  her  still  short-tempered.  She  didn't  care 
which  way  it  pointed.  She  didn't  believe  there  was 
any  fair  city. 

There  was  a  famous  preacher.  He  lived  the  sim- 
ple life  in  a  small  house  in  Battersea,  and  consecrated 
all  his  energies  to  the  service  of  the  poor.  Almost, 
by  his  unselfish  zeal,  he  had  persuaded  Joan  of  the 
usefulness  of  the  church.  Mr.  Airlie  frequently 
visited  him.  They  interested  one  another.  What 
struck  Mr.  Airlie  most  was  the  self-sacrificing  devo- 
tion with  which  the  reverend  gentleman's  wife  and 
family  surrounded  him.  It  was  beautiful  to  see. 
The  calls  upon  his  moderate  purse,  necessitated  by 
his  wide-spread  and  much  paragraphed  activities,  left 
but  a  narrow  margin  for  domestic  expenses :  with  the 
result  that  often  the  only  fire  in  the  house  blazed 
brightly  in  the  study  where  Mr.  Airlie  and  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  sat  talking:  while  mother  and  chil- 
dren warmed  themselves  with  sense  of  duty  in  the 
cheerless  kitchen.  And  often,  as  Mr.  Airlie,  who 
was  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  had  convinced  him- 
self the  only  evening  meal  that  resources  would  per- 
mit was  the  satisfying  supper  for  one  brought  by  the 
youngest  daughter  to  her  father  where  he  sat  alone 
in  the  small  dining-room. 

Mr.  Airlie,  picking  daintily  at  his  food,  continued 
his  stories:  of  philanthropists  who  paid  starvation 
wages :  of  feminists  who  were  a  holy  terror  to  their 
women  folk :  of  socialists  who  travelled  first-class  and 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  101 

spent  their  winters  in  Egypt  or  Monaco:  of  stern 
critics  of  public  morals  who  preferred  the  society 
of  youthful  affinities  to  the  continued  company  of 
elderly  wives :  of  poets  who  wrote  divinely  about 
babies'  feet  and  whose  children  hated  them. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  all  true?  "  Joan  whispered  to 
her  host. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No  reason  why  it 
shouldn't  be,"  he  said.  "  I've  generally  found  him 
right. 

"  I've  never  been  able  myself,"  he  continued,  "  to 
understand  the  Lord's  enthusiasm  for  David.  I 
suppose  it  was  the  Psalms  that  did  it." 

Joan  was  about  to  offer  comment,  but  was  struck 
dumb  with  astonishment  on  hearing  McKean's  voice; 
it  seemed  he  could  talk.  He  was  telling  of  an  old 
Scotch  peasant  farmer.  A  mean,  cantankerous  old 
cuss  whose  curious  pride  it  was  that  he  had  never 
given  anything  away.  Not  a  crust,  nor  a  sixpence, 
nor  a  rag;  and  never  would.  Many  had  been  the 
attempts  to  make  him  break  his  boast :  some  for  the 
joke  of  the  thing  and  some  for  the  need;  but  none 
had  ever  succeeded.  It  was  his  one  claim  to  dis- 
tinction and  he  guarded  it. 

One  evening  it  struck  him  that  the  milk-pail,  stand- 
ing just  inside  the  window,  had  been  tampered  with. 
Next  day  he  marked  with  a  scratch  the  inside  of  the 
pan  and,  returning  later,  found  the  level  of  the  milk 
had  sunk  by  half  an  inch.  So  he  hid  himself  and 
waited;  and  at  twilight  the  next  day  the  window  was 
stealthily  pushed  open,  and  two  small,  terror-haunted 
eyes  peered  round  the  room.  They  satisfied  them- 


102  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

selves  that  no  one  was  about  and  a  tiny  hand  clutch- 
ing a  cracked  jug  was  thrust  swiftly  in  and  dipped 
into  the  pan;  and  the  window  softly  closed. 

He  knew  the  thief,  the  grandchild  of  an  old  bed- 
ridden dame  who  lived  some  miles  away  on  the  edge 
of  the  moor.  The  old  man  stood  long,  watching  the 
small  cloaked  figure  till  it  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 
It  was  not  till  he  lay  upon  his  dying  bed  that  he  con- 
fessed it.  But  each  evening,  from  that  day,  he 
would  steal  into  the  room  and  see  to  it  himself  that 
the  window  was  left  ajar. 

After  the  coffee,  Mrs.  Phillips  proposed  their  ad- 
journing to  the  "  drawing-room "  the  other  side 
of  the  folding  doors,  which  had  been  left  open. 
Phillips  asked  her  to  leave  Joan  and  himself  where 
they  were.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  her.  He  prom- 
ised not  to  bore  her  for  more  than  ten  minutes. 

The  others  rose  and  moved  away.  Hilda  came 
and  stood  before  Joan  with  her  hands  behind  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  bed  now,"  she  said.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you  from  what  Papa  told  me.  May  I  kiss 
you?" 

It  was  spoken  so  gravely  that  Joan  did  not  ask 
her,  as  in  lighter  mood  she  might  have  done,  what 
it  was  that  Phillips  had  said.  She  raised  her  face 
quietly,  and  the  child  bent  forward  and  kissed  her, 
and  went  out  without  looking  back  at  either  of  them, 
leaving  Joan  more  serious  than  there  seemed  any 
reason  for.  Phillips  filled  his  pipe  and  lighted  it. 

"  I  wish  I  had  your  pen,"  he  said,  suddenly  break- 
ing the  silence.  "  I'm  all  right  at  talking;  but  I 
want  to  get  at  the  others:  the  men  and  women 
who  never  come,  thinking  it  has  nothing  to  do 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  103 

with  them.  I'm  shy  and  awkward  when  I  try  to 
write.  There  seems  a  barrier  in  front  of  me.  You 
break  through  it.  One  hears  your  voice.  Tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  are  you  getting  your  way?  Do  they 
answer  you?  " 

'  Yes,"  said  Joan.  "  Not  any  great  number  of 
them,  not  yet.  But  enough  to  show  that  I  really 
am  interesting  them.  It  grows  every  week." 

"  Tell  them  that,"  he  said.  "  Let  them  hear  each 
other.  It's  the  same  at  a  meeting.  You  wait  ten 
minutes  sometimes  before  one  man  will  summon  up 
courage  to  put  a  question;  but  once  one  or  two  have 
ventured  they  spring  up  all  round  you.  I  was  won- 
dering," he  added,  "  if  you  would  help  me;  let  me 
use  you,  now  and  again." 

"  It  is  what  I  should  love,"  she  answered.  "  Tell 
me  what  to  do."  She  was  not  conscious  of  the  low, 
vibrating  tone  in  which  she  spoke. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  them,"  he  said,  "  about  their 
stomachs.  I  want  them  to  see  the  need  of  concen- 
trating upon  the  food  problem :  insisting  that  it  shall 
be  solved.  The  other  things  can  follow. 

"  There  was  an  old  Egyptian  chap,"  he  said,  "  a 
governor  of  one  of  their  provinces,  thousands  of 
years  before  the  Pharaohs  were  ever  heard  of. 
They  dug  up  his  tomb  a  little  while  ago.  It  bore 
this  inscription:  '  In  my  time  no  man  went  hungry.' 
I'd  rather  have  that  carved  upon  my  gravestone  than 
the  boastings  of  all  the  robbers  and  the  butchers 
of  history.  Think  what  it  must  have  meant  in  that 
land  of  drought  and  famine:  only  a  narrow  strip  of 
river  bank  where  a  grain  of  corn  would  grow;  and 
that  only  when  old  Nile  was  kind.  If  not,  your 


104  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

nearest  supplies  five  hundred  miles  away  across  the 
desert,  your  only  means  of  transport  the  slow-moving 
camel.  Your  convoy  must  be  guarded  against  at- 
tack, provided  with  provisions  and  water  for  a  two 
months'  journey.  Yet  he  never  failed  his  people. 
Fat  year  and  lean  year :  '  In  my  time  no  man  went 
hungry.'  And  here,  today,  with  our  steamships  and 
our  railways,  with  the  granaries  of  the  world  filled  to 
overflowing,  one  third  of  our  population  lives  on  the 
border  line  of  want.  In  India  they  die  by  the  road- 
side. What's  the  good  of  it  all :  your  science  and 
your  art  and  your  religion!  How  can  you  help 
men's  souls  if  their  bodies  are  starving?  A  hungry 
man's  a  hungry  beast. 

"  I  spent  a  week  at  Grimsby,  some  years  ago,  or- 
ganizing a  fisherman's  union.  They  used  to  throw 
the  fish  back  into  the  sea,  tons  upon  tons  of  it,  that 
men  had  risked  their  lives  to  catch,  that  would  have 
fed  half  London's  poor.  There  was  a  '  glut '  of  it, 
they  said.  The  '  market '  didn't  want  it.  Funny, 
isn't  it,  a  '  glut '  of  food:  and  the  kiddies  can't  learn 
their  lessons  for  want  of  it.  I  was  talking  with  a 
farmer  down  in  Kent.  The  plums  were  rotting 
on  his  trees.  There  were  too  many  of  them:  that 
was  the  trouble.  The  railway  carriage  alone  would 
cost  him  more  than  he  could  get  for  them.  They 
were  too  cheap.  So  nobody  could  have  them.  It's 
the  muddle  of  the  thing  that  makes  me  mad  —  the 
ghastly  muddle-headed  way  the  chief  business  of  the 
world  is  managed.  There's  enough  food  could  be 
grown  in  this  country  to  feed  all  the  people  and  then 
of  the  fragments  each  man  might  gather  his  ten  bas- 
ketsful.  There's  no  miracle  needed.  I  went  into 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  105 

the  matter  once  with  Dalroy  of  the  Board  of  Agri- 
culture. He's  the  best  man  they've  got,  if  they'd 
only  listen  to  him.  It's  never  been  organized :  that's 
all.  It  isn't  the  fault  of  the  individual.  It  ought 
not  to  be  left  to  the  individual.  The  man  who 
makes  a  corner  in  wheat  in  Chicago  and  condemns 
millions  to  privation  —  likely  enough,  he's  a  decent 
sort  of  fellow  in  himself:  a  kind  husband  and  fa- 
ther —  would  be  upset  for  the  day  if  he  saw  a  child 
crying  for  bread.  My  dog's  a  decent  enough  little 
chap,  as  dogs  go,  but  I  don't  let  him  run  my  larder. 
"  It  could  be  done  with  a  little  good  will  all 
round,"  he  continued,  "  and  nine  men  out  of  every 
ten  would  be  the  better  off.  But  they  won't  even 
let  you  explain.  Their  newspapers  shout  you  down. 
It's  such  a  damned  fine  world  for  the  few:  never 
mind  the  many.  My  father  was  a  farm  labourer: 
and  all  his  life  he  never  earned  more  than  thirteen 
and  sixpence  a  week.  I  left  when  I  was  twelve  and 
went  into  the  mines.  There  were  six  of  us  chil- 
dren; and  my  mother  brought  us  up  healthy  and 
decent.  She  fed  us  and  clothed  us  and  sent  us  to 
school;  and  when  she  died  we  buried  her  with  the 
money  she  had  put  by  for  the  purpose;  and  never  a 
penny  of  charity  had  ever  soiled  her  hands.  I  can 
see  them  now.  Talk  of  your  Chancellors  of  the 
Exchequer  and  their  problems!  She  worked  her- 
self to  death,  of  course.  Well,  that's  all  right. 
One  doesn't  mind  that  where  one  loves.  If  they 
would  only  let  you.  She  had  no  opposition  to  con- 
tend with  —  no  thwarting  and  hampering  at  every 
turn  —  the  very  people  you  are  working  for  hounded 
on  against  you.  The  difficulty  of  a  man  like  myself, 


106  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

who  wants  to  do  something,  who  could  do  something, 
is  that  for  the  best  part  of  his  life  he  is  fighting  to 
be  allowed  to  do  it.  By  the  time  I've  lived  down 
their  lies  and  got  my  chance,  my  energy  will  be 
gone." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  relit  it. 

"  I've  no  quarrel  with  the  rich,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  care  how  many  rich  men  there  are,  so  long  as 
there  are  no  poor.  Who  does !  I  was  riding  on  a 
bus  the  other  day,  and  there  was  a  man  beside  me 
with  a  bandaged  head.  He'd  been  hurt  in  that  rail- 
way smash  at  Morpeth.  He  hadn't  claimed  dam- 
ages from  the  railway  company  and  wasn't  going  to. 
*  Oh,  it's  only  a  few  scratches,'  he  said.  '  They'll 
be  hit  hard  enough  as  it  is.'  If  he'd  been  a  poor 
devil  on  eighteen  shillings  a  week  it  would  have 
been  different.  He  was  an  engineer  earning  good 
wages;  so  he  wasn't  feeling  sore  and  bitter  against 
half  the  world.  Suppose  you  tried  to  run  an  army 
with  your  men  half  starved  while  your  officers  had 
more  than  they  could  eat.  It's  been  tried  and  what's 
been  the  result?  See  that  your  soldiers  have  their 
proper  rations,  and  the  General  can  sit  down  to  his 
six-course  dinner,  if  he  will.  They  are  not  begrudg- 
ing it  to  him. 

"  A  nation  works  on  its  stomach.  Underfeed 
your  rank  and  file,  and  what  sort  of  a  fight  are  you 
going  to  put  up  against  your  rivals?  I  want  to  see 
England  going  ahead.  I  want  to  see  her  workers 
properly  fed.  I  want  to  see  the  corn  upon  her 
unused  acres,  the  cattle  grazing  on  her  wasted  pas- 
tures. I  object  to  the  food  being  thrown  into  the 
sea  —  left  to  rot  upon  the  ground  while  men  are 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  107 

hungry  —  side-tracked  in  Chicago,  while  the  children 
grow  up  stunted.  I  want  the  commissariat  properly 
organized." 

He  had  been  staring  through  her  rather  than  at 
her,  so  it  had  seemed  to  Joan.  Suddenly  their  eyes 
met,  and  he  broke  into  a  smile. 

"  I'm  so  awfully  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I've  been 
talking  to  you  as  if  you  were  a  public  meeting.  I'm 
afraid  I'm  more  used  to  them  than  I  am  to  women. 
Please  forgive  me." 

The  whole  man  had  changed.  The  eyes  had  a 
timid  pleading  in  them. 

Joan  laughed.  "  I've  been  feeling  as  if  I  were 
the  King  of  Bavaria,"  she  said. 

"  How  did  he  feel?  "  he  asked  her,  leaning  for- 
ward. 

"  He  had  his  own  private  theatre,"  Joan  ex- 
plained, "  where  Wagner  gave  his  operas.  And 
the  King  was  the  sole  audience." 

"  I  should  have  hated  that,"  he  said,  "  if  I  had 
been  Wagner." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  a  flush  passed  over  his  boy- 
ish face. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  if  it  had  been  a  queen." 

Joan  found  herself  tracing  patterns  with  her  spoon 

upon  the  tablecloth.     "  But  you  have  won  now," 

she  said,  still  absorbed  apparently  with  her  drawing, 

"  you  are  going  to  get  your  chance." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  A  trick,"  he  said,  "  to 
weaken  me.  They  think  to  shave  my  locks;  show 
me  to  the  people  bound  by  their  red  tape.  To  put 
it  another  way,  a  rat  among  the  terriers." 


108  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Joan  laughed.  "  You  don't  somehow  suggest  the 
rat,"  she  said:  "  rather  another  sort  of  beast." 

"What  do  you  advise  me?"  he  asked.  "I 
haven't  decided  yet." 

They  were  speaking  in  whispered  tones. 
Through  the  open  doors  they  could  see  into  the  other 
room.  Mrs.  Phillips,  under  Airlie's  instructions, 
was  venturing  upon  a  cigarette. 

"  To  accept,"  she  answered.  "  They  won't  in- 
fluence you  —  the  terriers,  as  you  call  them.  You 
are  too  strong.  It  is  you  who  will  sway  them.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  were  a  mere  agitator.  Take  this  op- 
portunity of  showing  them  that  you  can  build,  plan, 
organize;  that  you  were  meant  to  be  a  ruler.  You 
can't  succeed  without  them,  as  things  are.  You've 
got  to  win  them  over.  Prove  to  them  that  they  can 
trust  you." 

He  sat  for  a  minute  tattooing  with  his  fingers  on 
the  table,  before  speaking. 

"  It's  the  frills  and  flummery  part  of  it  that  fright- 
ens me,"  he  said.  "  You  wouldn't  think  that  sensi- 
tiveness was  my  weak  point.  But  it  is.  I've  stood 
up  to  a  Birmingham  mob  that  was  waiting  to  lynch 
me  and  enjoyed  the  experience;  but  I'd  run  ten  miles 
rather  than  face  a  drawing-room  of  well-dressed 
people  with  their  masked  faces  and  ironic  courtesies. 
It  leaves  me  for  days  feeling  like  a  lobster  that  has 
lost  its  shell." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  it,  if  I  didn't  mean  it,"  answered 
Joan;  "  but  you  haven't  got  to  trouble  yourself  about 
that.  .  .  .  You're  quite  passable."  She  smiled.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  most  women  would  find  him  more 
than  passable. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  109 

He  shook  his  head.  "  With  you,"  he  said. 
"  There's  something  about  you  that  makes  one 
ashamed  of  worrying  about  the  little  things.  But 
the  others:  the  sneering  women  and  the  men  who 
wink  over  their  shoulder  while  they  talk  to  you,  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  get  away  from  them,  and, 
of  course,  wherever  I  go " 

He  stopped  abruptly  with  a  sudden  tightening  of 
the  lips.  Joan  followed  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Phillips 
had  swallowed  the  smoke  and  was  giggling  and  splut- 
tering by  turns.  The  yellow  ostrich  feather  had 
worked  itself  loose  and  was  rocking  to  and  fro  as 
if  in  a  fit  of  laughter  of  its  own. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose.  "  Shall  we 
join  the  others?"  he  said. 

He  moved  so  that  he  was  between  her  and  the 
other  room,  his  back  to  the  open  doors.  '  You 
think  I  ought  to?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  firmly,  as  if  she  were  giving 
a  command.  But  he  read  pity  also  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  have  you  two  settled  the  affairs  of  the 
kingdom?  Is  it  all  decided?"  asked  Airlie. 

'  Yes,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "  We  are  going 
to  say  to  the  people,  4  Eat,  drink  and  be  wise.'  ' 

He  rearranged  his  wife's  feather  and  smoothed 
her  tumbled  hair.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

Joan  set  herself  to  make  McKean  talk,  and  after 
a  time  succeeded.  They  had  a  mutual  friend,  a  raw- 
boned  youth  she  had  met  at  Cambridge.  He  was 
engaged  to  McKean's  sister.  His  eyes  lighted  up 
when  he  spoke  of  his  sister  Jenny.  The  Little 
Mother,  he  called  her. 

"  She's  the  most  beautiful  body  in  all  the  world," 


110  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

he  said.  "  Though  merely  seeing  her  you  mightn't 
know  it." 

He  saw  her  "  home  " ;  and  went  on  up  the  stairs 
to  his  own  floor. 

Joan  stood  for  a  while  in  front  of  the  glass  be- 
fore undressing;  but  felt  less  satisfied  with  herself. 
She  replaced  the  star  in  its  case,  and  took  off  the 
regal-looking  dress  with  the  golden  girdle  and  laid 
it  carelessly  aside.  She  seemed  to  be  growing 
smaller. 

In  her  white  night  dress,  with  her  hair  in  two 
long  plaits,  she  looked  at  herself  once  more.  She 
seemed  to  be  no  one  of  any  importance  at  all:  just  a 
long  little  girl  going  to  bed.  With  no  one  to  kiss 
her  good  night. 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and  climbed  into  the  big 
bed,  feeling  very  lonesome  as  she  used  to  when  a 
child.  It  had  not  troubled  her  until  tonight.  Sud- 
denly she  sat  up  again.  She  needn't  be  back  in 
London  before  Tuesday  evening,  and  today  was 
only  Friday.  She  would  run  down  home  and  burst 
in  upon  her  father.  He  would  be  so  pleased  to  see 
her. 

She  would  make  him  put  his  arms  around  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHE  reached  home  in  the  evening.  She  thought 
to  find  her  father  in  his  study.  But  they  told 
her  that,  now,  he  usually  sat  alone  in  the  great  draw- 
ing-room. She  opened  the  door  softly.  The  room 
was  dark  save  for  a  flicker  of  firelight;  she  could  see 
nothing.  Nor  was  there  any  sound. 

"  Dad,"  she  cried,  "  are  you  here?  " 

He  rose  slowly  from  a  high-backed  chair  beside 
the  fire.  "  It  is  you,"  he  said.  He  seemed  a  lit- 
tle dazed. 

She  ran  to  him  and,  seizing  his  listless  arms,  put 
them  round  her. 

"  Give  me  a  hug,  Dad,"  she  commanded.  "  A 
real  hug." 

He  held  her  to  him  for  what  seemed  a  long  while. 
There  was  strength  in  his  arms,  in  spite  of  the  bowed 
shoulders  and  white  hair. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  had  forgotten  how  to  do  it," 
she  laughed,  when  at  last  he  released  her.  "  Do  you 
know,  you  haven't  hugged  me,  Dad,  since  I  was  five 
years  old.  That's  nineteen  years  ago.  You  do  love 
me,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  always  loved 
you." 

She  would  not  let  him  light  the  gas.  "  I  have 
dined  —  in  the  train,"  she  explained.  "  Let  us  talk 
by  the  firelight." 

She  forced  him  gently  back  into  his  chair,   and 
in 


112  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

seated  herself  upon  the  floor  between  his  knees. 
"  What  were  you  thinking  of  when  I  came  in?  "  she 
asked.  "  You  weren't  asleep,  were  you?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  Not  that  sort  of  sleep." 
She  could  not  see  his  face.  But  she  guessed  his 
meaning. 

"  Am  I  very  like  her?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Marvellously  like  her 
as  she  used  to  be:  except  for  just  one  thing.  Per- 
'haps  that  will  come  to  you  later.  I  thought,  for  the 
moment,  as  you  stood  there  by  the  door  .  .  ."  He 
did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

'  Tell  me  about  her,"  she  said.  "  I  never  knew 
she  had  been  an  actress." 

He  did  not  ask  her  how  she  had  learnt  it.  "  She 
gave  it  up  when  we  were  married,"  he  said.  "  The 
people  she  would  have  to  live  among  would  have 
looked  askance  at  her  if  they  had  known.  There 
seemed  no  reason  why  they  should." 

"  How  did  it  all  happen?  "  she  persisted.  "  Was 
it  very  beautiful,  in  the  beginning?  "  She  wished 
she  had  not  added  that  last.  The  words  had  slipped 
from  her  before  she  knew. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  he  answered,  "  in  the  begin- 
ning." 

"  It  was  my  fault,"  he  went  on,  "  that  it  was  not 
beautiful  all  through.  I  ought  to  have  let  her  take 
up  her  work  again,  as  she  wished  to,  when  she  found 
what  giving  it  up  meant  to  her.  The  world  was 
narrower  then  than  it  is  now;  and  I  listened  to  the 
world.  I  thought  it  another  voice." 

"  It's  difficult  to  tell,  isn't  it?  "  she  said.  "  I  won- 
der how  one  can?  " 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  113 

He  did  not  answer;  and  they  sat  for  a  time  in 
silence.  "  Did  you  ever  see  her  act?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Every  evening  for  about  six  months,"  he  an- 
swered. A  little  flame  shot  up  and  showed  a  smile 
upon  his  face.  "  I  owe  to  her  all  the  charity  and 
tenderness  I  know.  She  taught  it  to  me  in  those 
months.  I  might  have  learned  more  if  I  had  let  her 
go  on  teaching.  It  was  the  only  way  she  knew." 

Joan  watched  her  as  gradually  she  shaped  herself 
out  of  the  shadows:  the  poor,  thin,  fretful  lady  of 
the  ever  restless  hands,  with  her  bursts  of  jealous 
passion,  her  long  moods  of  sullen  indifference:  all 
her  music  turned  to  waste. 

"  How  did  she  come  to  fall  in  love  with  you?  " 
asked  Joan.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be  uncomplimentary, 
Dad."  She  laughed,  taking  his  hand  in  hers  and 
stroking  it.  "  You  must  have  been  ridiculously 
handsome,  when  you  were  young.  And  you  must 
always  have  been  strong  and  brave  and  clever.  I 
can  see  such  a  lot  of  women  falling  in  love  with  you. 
But  not  the  artistic  woman." 

"  It  wasn't  so  incongruous  at  the  time,"  he  an- 
swered. "  My  father  had  sent  me  out  to  America 
to  superintend  a  contract.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
had  ever  been  away  from  home,  though  I  was  nearly 
thirty;  and  all  my  pent-up  youth  rushed  out  of  me 
at  once.  It  was  a  harum-scarum  fellow,  mad  with 
the  joy  of  life,  that  made  love  to  her;  not  the  man 
who  went  out,  nor  the  man  who  came  back.  It  was 
at  San  Francisco  that  I  met  her.  She  was  touring 
the  Western  States;  and  I  let  everything  go  to  the 
wind  and  followed  her.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
Heaven  had  opened  up  to  me.  I  fought  a  duel  in 


114  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Colorado  with  a  man  who  had  insulted  her.  The 
law  didn't  run  there  in  those  days;  and  three  of  his 
hired  gunmen,  as  they  called  them,  held  us  up  that 
night  in  the  train  and  gave  her  the  alternative  of  go- 
ing back  with  them  and  kissing  him  or  seeing  me 
dead  at  her  feet.  I  didn't  give  her  time  to  answer, 
nor  for  them  to  finish.  It  seemed  a  fine  death  any- 
how, that.  And  I'd  have  faced  Hell  itself  for  the 
chance  of  fighting  for  her.  Though  she  told  me 
afterwards  that  if  I'd  died  she'd  have  gone  back 
with  them,  and  killed  him." 

Joan  did  not  speak  for  a  time.  She  could  see  him 
grave  —  a  little  pompous,  in  his  Sunday  black,  his 
footsteps  creaking  down  the  stone-flagged  aisle,  the 
silver-edged  collecting  bag  held  stiffly  in  his  hand. 

"Couldn't  you  have  saved  a  bit,  Daddy?"  she 
asked,  "  of  all  that  wealth  of  youth  —  just  enough 
to  live  on?  " 

"  I  might,"  he  answered,  "  if  I  had  known  the 
value  of  it.  I  found  a  cable  waiting  for  me  in  New 
York.  My  father  had  been  dead  a  month;  and  I 
had  to  return  immediately." 

"  And  so  you  married  her  and  took  her  drum 
away  from  her,"  said  Joan.  "  Oh,  the  thing  God 
gives  to  some  of  us,"  she  explained,  "  to  make  a  lit- 
tle noise  with,  and  set  the  people  marching." 

The  little  flame  died  out.  She  could  feel  his  body 
trembling. 

"  But  you  still  loved  her,  didn't  you,  Dad?  "  she 
asked.  "  I  was  very  little  at  the  time,  but  I  can  just 
remember.  You  seemed  so  happy  together.  Till 
her  illness  came." 

"  It  was  more  than  love,"  he  answered.     "  It  was 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  115 

idolatry.  God  punished  me  for  it.  He  was  a  hard 
God,  my  God." 

She  raised  herself,  putting  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders  so  that  her  face  was  very  close  to  his. 
"  What  has  become  of  Him,  Dad?  "  she  said.  She 
spoke  in  a  cold  voice,  as  one  does  of  a  false  friend. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered  her.  "  I  don't 
seem  to  care." 

"  He  must  be  somewhere,"  she  said:  "  the  living 
God :  of  love  and  hope  :  the  God  that  Christ  believed 
in." 

"They  were  His  last  words,  too,"  he  answered: 
"  '  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken 
me?'" 

"  No,  not  His  last,"  said  Joan:  "  '  Lo,  I  am  with 
you  always,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world.'  Love 
was  Christ's  God.  He  will  help  us  to  find  Him." 

Their  arms  were  about  one  another.  Joan  felt 
that  a  new  need  had  been  born  in  her:  the  need  of 
loving  and  of  being  loved.  It  was  good  to  lay  her 
head  upon  his  breast  and  know  that  he  was  glad  of 
her  coming. 

He  asked  her  questions  about  herself.  But  she 
could  see  that  he  was  tired;  so  she  told  him  it  was 
too  important  a  matter  to  start  upon  so  late.  She 
would  talk  about  herself  tomorrow.  It  would  be 
Sunday. 

"  Do  you  still  go  to  the  chapel?"  she  asked  him 
a  little  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  One  lives  by  habit." 

"  It  is  the  only  Temple  I  know,"  he  continued 
after  a  moment.  "  Perhaps  God,  one  day,  will  find 
me  there," 


116  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

He  rose  and  lit  the  gas,  and  a  letter  on  the  mantel- 
piece caught  his  eye. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Arthur?  "  he  asked,  sud- 
denly turning  to  her. 

"  No.  Not  since  about  a  month,"  she  answered. 
"Why?" 

"  He  will  be  pleased  to  find  you  here,  waiting  for 
him,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  handing  her  the  letter. 
"  He  will  be  here  some  time  tomorrow." 

Arthur  Allway  was  her  cousin,  the  son  of  a  Non- 
conformist Minister.  Her  father  had  taken  him 
into  the  works  and  for  the  last  three  years  he  had 
been  in  Egypt,  helping  in  the  laying  of  a  tramway 
line.  He  was  in  love  with  her;  at  least  so  they  all 
told  her;  and  his  letters  were  certainly  somewhat 
committal.  Joan  replied  to  them  —  when  she  did 
not  forget  to  do  so  —  in  a  studiously  sisterly  vein ; 
and  always  reproved  him  for  unnecessary  extrava- 
gance whenever  he  sent  her  a  present.  The  letter 
announced  his  arrival  at  Southampton.  He  would 
stop  at  Birmingham,  where  his  parents  lived,  for  a 
couple  of  days,  and  be  in  Liverpool  on  Sunday  eve- 
ning, so  as  to  be  able  to  get  straight  to  business  on 
Monday  morning.  Joan  handed  back  the  letter. 
It  contained  nothing  else. 

"  It  only  came  an  hour  or  two  ago,"  her  father  ex- 
plained. "  If  he  wrote  to  you  by  the  same  post,  you 
may  have  left  before  it  arrived." 

"  So  long  as  he  doesn't  think  that  I  came  down 
specially  to  see  him,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Joan. 

They  both  laughed.  "  He's  a  good  lad,"  said 
her  father. 

They  kissed  good  night,  and  Joan  went  up  to  her 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  117 

own  room.  She  found  it  just  as  she  had  left  it.  A 
bunch  of  roses  stood  upon  the  dressing-table.  Her 
father  would  never  let  any  one  cut  his  roses  but  him- 
self. 

Young  Allway  arrived  just  as  Joan  and  her  father 
had  sat  down  to  supper.  A  place  had  been  laid 
for  him.  He  flushed  with  pleasure  at  seeing  her ;  but 
was  not  surprised. 

"  I  called  at  your  diggings,"  he  said.  "  I  had  to 
go  through  London.  They  told  me  you  had  started. 
It  is  good  of  you." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  said  Joan.  "  I  came  down  to  see 
Dad.  I  didn't  know  you  were  back."  She  spoke 
with  some  asperity;  and  his  face  fell. 

"How  are  you?"  she  added,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "  You've  grown  quite  good-looking.  I  like 
your  moustache."  And  he  flushed  again  with  pleas- 
ure. 

He  had  a  sweet,  almost  girlish  face,  with  delicate 
skin  that  the  Egyptian  sun  had  deepened  into  rud- 
diness; with  soft,  dreamy  eyes  and  golden  hair.  He 
looked  lithe  and  agile  rather  than  strong.  He  was 
shy  at  first,  but  once  set  going,  talked  freely,  and  was 
interesting. 

His  work  had  taken  him  into  the  Desert,  far  from 
the  beaten  tracks.  He  described  the  life  of  the  peo- 
ple, very  little  different  from  what  it  must  have  been 
in  Noah's  time.  For  months  he  had  been  the  only 
white  man  there,  and  had  lived  among  them.  What 
had  struck  him  was  how  little  he  had  missed  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  civilization,  once  he  got  over  the 
first  shock.  He  had  learnt  their  sports  and  games; 
wrestled  and  swum  and  hunted  with  them.  Pro- 


118 

vided  one  was  a  little  hungry  and  tired  with  toil,  a 
stew  of  goat's  flesh  with  sweet  cakes  and  fruits, 
washed  down  with  wine  out  of  a  sheep's  skin,  made 
a  feast;  and  after,  there  was  music  and  singing  and 
dancing,  or  the  travelling  story-teller  would  gather 
round  him  his  rapt  audience.  Paris  had  only  robbed 
women  of  their  grace  and  dignity.  He  preferred 
the  young  girls  in  their  costume  of  the  fourteenth 
dynasty.  Progress,  he  thought,  had  tended  only  to 
complicate  life  and  render  it  less  enjoyable.  All  the 
essentials  of  happiness  —  love,  courtship,  marriage, 
the  home,  children,  friendship,  social  intercourse  and 
play,  were  independent  of  it;  had  always  been  there 
for  the  asking. 

Joan  thought  his  mistake  lay  in  regarding  man's 
happiness  as  more  important  to  him  than  his  self- 
development.  It  was  not  what  we  got  out  of  civ- 
ilization but  what  we  put  into  it  that  was  our  gain. 
Its  luxuries  and  ostentations  were,  in  themselves,  per- 
haps bad  for  us.  But  the  pursuit  of  them  was  good. 
It  called  forth  thought  and  effort,  sharpened  our 
wits,  strengthened  our  brains.  Primitive  man,  con- 
tent with  his  necessities,  would  never  have  produced 
genius.  Art,  literature,  science  would  have  been 
still-born. 

He  hesitated  before  replying,  glancing  at  her  fur- 
tively while  crumbling  his  bread.  When  he  did,  it 
was  in  the  tone  that  one  of  her  younger  disciples 
might  have  ventured  into  a  discussion  with  Hypatia. 
But  he  stuck  to  his  guns. 

How  did  she  account  for  David  and  Solomon, 
Moses  and  the  Prophets?  They  had  sprung  from 
a  shepherd  race.  Yet  surely  there  was  genius,  lit- 


119 

erature.  Greece  owed  nothing  to  progress.  She 
had  preceded  it.  Her  thinkers,  her  poets,  her  scien- 
tists had  drawn  their  inspiration  from  nature,  not 
civilization.  Her  art  had  sprung  full  grown  out  of 
the  soil.  We  had  never  surpassed  it. 

"  But  the  Greek  ideal  could  not  have  been  the  right 
one,  or  Greece  would  not  so  utterly  have  disap- 
peared," suggested  Mr.  Allway.  "  Unless  you  re- 
ject the  law  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest." 

He  had  no  qualms  about  arguing  with  his  uncle. 
"  So    did   Archimedes    disappear,"    he    answered 
with  a  smile.       '  The  nameless  Roman  soldier  re- 
mained.    That  was  hardly  the  survival  of  the  fit- 
test." 

He  thought  it  the  tragedy  of  the  world  that  Rome 
had  conquered  Greece,  imposing  her  lower  ideals 
upon  the  race.  Rome  should  have  been  the  servant 
of  Greece :  the  hands  directed  by  the  brain.  She 
would  have  made  roads  and  harbours,  conducted  the 
traffic,  reared  the  market  place.  She  knew  of  the 
steam  engine,  employed  it  for  pumping  water  in  the 
age  of  the  Antonines.  Sooner  or  later,  she  would 
have  placed  it  on  rails,  and  in  ships.  Rome  should 
have  been  the  policeman,  keeping  the  world  in  order, 
making  it  a  fit  habitation.  Her  mistake  was  in  re- 
garding these  things  as  an  end  in  themselves,  dream- 
ing of  nothing  beyond.  From  her  we  had  inherited 
the  fallacy  that  man  was  made  for  the  world,  not  the 
world  for  man.  Rome  organized  only  for  man's 
body.  Greece  would  have  legislated  for  his  soul. 

They  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Her  father 
asked  her  to  sing  and  Arthur  opened  the  piano  for 
her  and  lit  the  candles.  She  chose  some  ballads  and 


120  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

a  song  of  Herrick's,  playing  her  own  accompaniment 
while  Arthur  turned  the  leaves.  She  had  a  good 
voice,  a  low  contralto.  The  room  was  high  and 
dimly  lighted.  It  looked  larger  than  it  really  was. 
Her  father  sat  in  his  usual  chair  beside  the  fire  and 
listened  with  half-closed  eyes.  Glancing  now  and 
then  across  at  him,  she  was  reminded  of  Orchard- 
son's  picture.  She  was  feeling  sentimental,  a  novel 
sensation  to  her.  She  rather  enjoyed  it. 

She  finished  with  one  of  Burns's  lyrics;  and  then 
told  Arthur  that  it  was  now  his  turn,  and  that  she 
would  play  for  him.  He  shook  his  head,  pleading 
that  he  was  out  of  practice. 

"  I  wish  it,"  she  said,  speaking  low.  And  it 
pleased  her  that  he  made  no  answer  but  to  ask  her 
what  he  should  sing.  He  had  a  light  tenor  voice. 
It  was  wobbly  at  first,  but  improved  as  he  went  on. 
They  ended  with  a  duet. 

The  next  morning  she  went  into  town  with  them. 
She  never  seemed  to  have  any  time  in  London,  and 
wanted  to  do  some  shopping.  They  joined  her  again 
for  lunch  and  afterwards,  at  her  father's  suggestion, 
she  and  Arthur  went  for  a  walk.  They  took  the 
tram  out  of  the  city  and  struck  into  the  country. 
The  leaves  still  lingered  brown  and  red  upon  the 
trees.  He  carried  her  cloak  and  opened  gates  for 
her  and  held  back  brambles  while  she  passed.  She 
had  always  been  indifferent  to  these  small  gallantries; 
but  today  she  welcomed  them.  She  wished  to  feel 
her  power  to  attract  and  command.  They  avoided 
all  subjects  on  which  they  could  differ,  even  in  words. 
They  talked  of  people  and  places  they  had  known 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  121 

together.  They  remembered  their  common  love  of 
animals  and  told  of  the  comedies  and  tragedies  that 
had  befallen  their  pets.  Joan's  regret  was  that  she 
had  not  now  even  a  dog,  thinking  it  cruel  to  keep 
them  in  London.  She  hated  the  women  she  met, 
dragging  the  poor  little  depressed  beasts  about  at  the 
end  of  a  string:  savage  with  them,  if  they  dared  to 
stop  for  a  moment  to  exchange  a  passing  wag  of 
the  tail  with  some  other  little  lonely  sufferer.  It  was 
as  bad  as  keeping  a  lark  in  a  cage.  She  had  tried 
a  cat:  but  so  often  she  did  not  get  home  till  late  and 
that  was  just  the  time  when  the  cat  wanted  to  be  out ; 
so  that  they  seldom  met.  He  suggested  a  parrot. 
His  experience  of  them  was  that  they  had  no  regular 
hours  and  would  willingly  sit  up  all  night,  if  encour- 
aged, and  talk  all  the  time.  Joan's  objection  to 
owning  a  parrot  was  that  it  stamped  you  as  an  old 
maid;  and  she  wasn't  that,  at  least,  not  yet.  She 
wondered  if  she  could  make  an  owl  really  happy. 
Minerva  had  an  owl. 

He  told  her  how  one  spring,  walking  across  a 
common,  after  a  fire,  he  had  found  a  mother  thrush 
burnt  to  death  upon  her  nest,  her  charred  wings 
spread  out  in  vain  endeavour  to  protect  her  brood. 
He  had  buried  her  there  among  the  blackened  thorn 
and  furze,  and  placed  a  little  cross  of  stones  above 
her. 

"  I  hope  nobody  saw  me,"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 
"  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  her  there,  unhon- 
oured." 

"  It's  one  of  the  things  that  make  me  less  certain 
than  I  want  to  be  of  a  future  existence,"  said  Joan: 


122  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  the  thought  that  animals  can  have  no  part  in  it; 
that  all  their  courage  and  love  and  faithfulness  dies 
with  them  and  is  wasted." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is?  "  he  answered.  "  It  would 
be  so  unreasonable." 

They  had  tea  at  an  old-fashioned  inn  beside  a 
stream.  It  was  a  favourite  resort  in  summer  time, 
but  now  they  had  it  to  themselves.  The  wind  had 
played  pranks  with  her  hair  and  he  found  a  mirror 
and  knelt  before  her,  holding  it. 

She  stood  erect,  looking  down  at  him  while  seem- 
ing to  be  absorbed  in  the  rearrangement  of  her  hair, 
feeling  a  little  ashamed  of  herself.  She  was  "  en- 
couraging "  him.  There  was  no  other  word  for  it. 
She  seemed  to  have  developed  a  sudden  penchant  for 
this  sort  of  thing.  It  would  end  in  his  proposing 
to  her;  and  then  she  would  have  to  tell  him  that  she 
cared  for  him  only  in  a  cousinly  sort  of  way  —  what- 
ever that  might  mean  —  and  that  she  could  never 
marry  him.  She  dared  not  ask  herself  why.  She 
must  manoeuvre  to  put  it  off  as  long  as  possible; 
and  meanwhile  some  opening  might  occur  to  en- 
lighten him.  She  would  talk  to  him  about  her  work; 
and  explain  to  him  how  she  had  determined  to  de- 
vote her  life  to  it  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  dis- 
tractions. If,  then,  he  chose  to  go  on  loving  her  — 
or  if  he  couldn't  help  it  —  that  would  not  be  her 
fault.  After  all,  it  did  him  no  harm.  She  could 
always  be  gracious  and  kind  to  him.  It  was  not  as 
if  she  had  tricked  him.  He  had  always  loved  her. 
Kneeling  before  her,  serving  her:  it  was  evident  it 
made  him  supremely  happy.  It  would  be  cruel  of 
her  to  end  it. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  123 

The  landlady  entered  unexpectedly  with  the  tea; 
but  he  did  not  rise  till  Joan  turned  away,  not  did  he 
seemed  disconcerted.  Neither  did  the  landlady. 
She  was  an  elderly,  quiet-  eyed  woman,  and  had 
served  more  than  one  generation  of  young  people 
with  their  teas. 

They  returned  home  by  train.  Joan  insisted  on 
travelling  third  class,  and  selected  a  compartment 
containing  a  stout  woman  and  two  children.  Arthur 
had  to  be  at  the  works.  An  important  contract  had 
got  behindhand  and  they  were  working  overtime. 
She  and  her  father  dined  alone.  He  made  her  ful- 
fil her  promise  to  talk  about  herself,  and  she  told  him 
all  she  thought  would  interest  him.  She  passed 
lightly  over  her  acquaintanceship  with  Phillips.  He 
would  regard  it  as  highly  undesirable,  she  told  her- 
self, and  it  would  trouble  him.  He  was  reading  her 
articles  in  the  Sunday  Post,  as  also  her  Letters  from 
Clorinda:  and  of  the  two  preferred  the  latter  as  be- 
ing less  subversive  of  law  and  order.  Also  he  did 
not  like  seeing  her  photograph  each  week,  displayed 
across  two  columns  with  her  name  beneath  in  one 
inch  type.  He  supposed  he  was  old-fashioned.  She 
was  getting  rather  tired  of  it  herself. 

"  The  Editor  insisted  upon  it,"  she  explained. 
"  It  was  worth  it  for  the  opportunity  it  gives  me. 
I  preach  every  Sunday  to  a  congregation  of  over  a 
million  souls.  It's  better  than  being  a  Bishop.  Be- 
sides," she  added,  "  the  men  are  just  as  bad.  You 
see  their  silly  faces  everywhere." 

"  That's  like  you  women,"  he  answered  with  a 
smile.  "  You  pretend  to  be  superior;  and  then  you 
copy  us." 


124  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

She  laughed.  But  the  next  moment  she  was  se- 
rious. "  No,  we  don't,"  she  said,  "  not  those  of  us 
who  think.  We  know  we  shall  never  oust  man  from 
his  place.  He  will  always  be  the  greater.  We  want 
to  help  him;  that's  all." 

"  But  wasn't  that  the  Lord's  idea,"  he  said; 
"  when  He  gave  Eve  to  Adam  to  be  his  helpmeet?  " 
'  Yes,  that  was  all  right,"  she  answered.  "  He 
fashioned  Eve  for  Adam  and  saw  that  Adam  got 
her.  The  ideal  marriage  might  have  been  the  ideal 
solution.  If  the  Lord  had  intended  that,  he  should 
have  kept  the  match-making  in  His  own  hands :  not 
have  left  it  to  man.  Somewhere  in  Athens  there 
must  have  been  the  helpmeet  God  had  made  for  So- 
crates. When  they  met,  it  was  Xanthippe  that  she 
kissed." 

A  servant  brought  the  coffee  and  went  out  again. 
Her  father  lighted  a  cigar  and  handed  her  the  cig- 
arettes. 

"  Will  it  shock  you,  Dad?  "  she  asked. 

"  Rather  late  in  the  day  for  you  to  worry  yourself 
about  that,  isn't  it?  "  he  answered  with  a  smile. 

He  struck  a  match  and  held  it  for  her.  Joan  sat 
with  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  smoked  in  silence. 
She  was  thinking. 

Why  had  he  never  "  brought  her  up,"  never  ex- 
acted obedience  from  her,  never  even  tried  to  in- 
fluence her?  It  could  not  have  been  mere  weakness. 
She  stole  a  side-long  glance  at  the  tired,  lined  face 
with  its  steel-blue  eyes.  She  had  never  seen  them 
other  than  calm,  but  they  must  have  been  able  to 
flash.  Why  had  he  always  been  so  just  and  kind 
and  patient  with  her?  Why  had  he  never  scolded 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  125 

her  and  bullied  her  and  teased  her  ?  Why  had  he  let 
her  go  away,  leaving  him  lonely  in  his  empty,  voice- 
less house  ?  Why  had  he  never  made  any  claim  upon 
her? 

The  idea  came  to  her  as  an  inspiration.  At  least, 
it  would  ease  her  conscience.  "  Why  don't  you  let 
Arthur  live  here,"  she  said,  "  instead  of  going  back 
to  his  lodgings?  It  would  be  company  for  you." 

He  did  not  answer  for  some  time.  She  had  begun 
to  wonder  if  he  had  heard. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him?  "  he  said,  without 
looking  at  her. 

"  Oh,  he's  quite  a  nice  lad,"  she  answered. 

It  was  some  while  again  before  he  spoke.  "  He 
will  be  the  last  of  the  Allways,"  he  said.  "  I  should 
like  to  think  of  the  name  being  continued;  and  he's 
a  good  business  man,  in  spite  of  his  dreaminess. 
Perhaps  he  would  get  on  better  with  the  men." 

She  seized  at  the  chance  of  changing  the  subject. 

"  It  was  a  foolish  notion,"  she  said,  "  that  of  the 
Manchester  school:  that  men  and  women  could  be 
treated  as  mere  figures  in  a  sum." 

To  her  surprise,  he  agreed  with  her.  "  The 
feudal  system  had  a  fine  idea  in  it,"  he  said,  "  if  it 
had  been  honestly  carried  out.  A  master  should  be 
the  friend,  the  helper  of  his  men.  They  should  be 
one  family." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  incredulously,  remem- 
bering the  bitter  periods  of  strikes  and  lock-outs. 

"  Did  you  ever  try,  Dad?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  tried  the  wrong 
way.  The  right  way  might  be  found,"  he  added, 
"  by  the  right  man  and  woman." 


126  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

She  felt  that  he  was  watching  her  through  his 
half-closed  eyes.  "  There  are  those  cottages,"  he 
continued,  "  just  before  you  come  to  the  bridge. 
They  might  be  repaired  and  a  club  house  added. 
The  idea  is  catching  on,  they  tell  me.  Garden  vil- 
lages, they  call  them  now.  It  gets  the  men  and 
women  away  from  the  dirty  streets;  and  gives  the 
children  a  chance." 

She  knew  the  place.  A  sad  group  of  dilapidated 
little  houses  forming  three  sides  of  a  paved  quad- 
rangle, with  a  shattered  fountain  and  withered  trees 
in  the  centre.  Ever  since  she  could  remember,  they 
had  stood  there  empty,  ghostly,  with  creaking  doors 
and  broken  windows,  their  gardens  overgrown  with 
weeds. 

"Are  they  yours?"  she  asked.  She  had  never 
connected  them  with  the  works,  some  half  a  mile 
away.  Though  had  she  been  curious,  she  might 
have  learnt  that  they  were  known  as  "  Allway's 
Folly." 

"  Your  mother's,"  he  answered.  "  I  built  them 
the  year  I  came  back  from  America  and  gave  them 
to  her.  I  thought  it  would  interest  her.  Perhaps 
it  would,  if  I  had  left  her  to  her  own  ways." 

"  Why  didn't  they  want  them?  "  she  asked. 

"  They  did,  at  first,"  he  answered.  "  The  time- 
servers  and  the  hypocrites  among  them.  I  made  it 
a  condition  that  they  should  be  teetotallers,  and 
chapel  goers,  and  everything  else  that  I  thought  good 
for  them.  I  thought  that  I  could  save  their  souls 
by  bribing  them  with  cheap  rents  and  share  of  prof- 
its. And  then  the  Union  came,  and  that  of  course 
finished  it," 


All  Eoads  Lead  to  Calvary  127 

So  he,  too,  had  thought  to  build  Jerusalem. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I'll  sound  him  about  giving 
up  his  lodgings." 

Joan  lay  awake  for  a  long  while  that  night.  The 
moon  looked  in  at  the  window.  It  seemed  to  have 
got  itself  entangled  in  the  tops  of  the  tall  pines. 
Would  it  not  be  her  duty  to  come  back  —  make  her 
father  happy,  to  say  nothing  of  the  other?  He  was 
a  dear,  sweet,  lovable  lad.  Together,  they  might 
realize  her  father's  dream:  repair  the  blunders,  plant 
gardens  where  the  weeds  now  grew,  drive  out  the  old 
sad  ghosts  with  living  voices.  It  had  been  a  fine 
thought,  a  "  King's  thought."  Others  had  fol- 
lowed, profiting  by  his  mistakes.  But  might  it  not 
be  carried  further  than  even  they  had  gone,  shaped 
into  some  noble  venture  that  should  serve  the  future? 

Was  not  her  America  here?  Why  seek  it  fur- 
ther? What  was  this  unknown  Force,  that,  against 
all  sense  and  reason,  seemed  driving  her  out  into  the 
wilderness  to  preach.  Might  it  not  be  mere  vanity, 
mere  egoism.  Almost  she  had  convinced  herself. 

And  then  there  flashed  remembrance  of  her 
mother.  She,  too,  had  laid  aside  herself;  had 
thought  that  love  and  duty  could  teach  one  to  be 
other  than  one  was.  The  Ego  was  the  all  important 
thing,  entrusted  to  us  as  the  talents  of  silver  to  the 
faithful  servant:  to  be  developed,  not  for  our  own 
purposes,  but  for  the  service  of  the  Master. 

One  did  no  good  by  suppressing  one's  nature.  In 
the  end  it  proved  too  strong.  Marriage  with  Arthur 
would  be  only  repeating  the  mistake.  To  be  wor- 
shipped, to  be  served.  It  would  be  very  pleasant, 
when  one  was  in  the  mood.  But  it  would  not  sat- 


128  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

isfy  her.  There  was  something  strong  and  fierce 
and  primitive  in  her  nature  —  something  that  had 
come  down  to  her  through  the  generations  from 
some  harness-girded  ancestress  —  something  im- 
pelling her  instinctively  to  choose  the  fighter;  to 
share  with  him  the  joy  of  battle,  healing  his  wounds, 
giving  him  of  her  courage,  exulting  with  him  in  the 
victory. 

The  moon  had  risen  clear  of  the  entangling  pines. 
It  rode  serene  and  free. 

Her  father  came  to  the  station  with  her  in  the 
morning.  The  train  was  not  in :  and  they  walked  up 
and  down  and  talked.  Suddenly  she  remembered: 
it  had  slipped  her  mind. 

"  Could  I,  as  a  child,  have  known  an  old  clergy- 
man? "  she  asked  him.  "  At  least  he  wouldn't  have 
been  old  then.  I  dropped  into  Chelsea  Church  one 
evening  and  heard  him  preach;  and  on  the  way  home 
I  passed  him  again  in  the  street.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  seen  his  face  before.  But  not  for  many 
years.  I  meant  to  write  you  about  it,  but  forgot." 

He  had  to  turn  aside  for  a  moment  to  speak  to 
an  acquaintance  about  business. 

"  Oh,  it's  possible,"  he  answered  on  rejoining  her. 
"  What  was  his  name?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered.  "  He  was  not 
the  regular  Incumbent.  But  it  was  some  one  that  I 
seemed  to  know  quite  well  —  that  I  must  have  been 
familiar  with." 

"  It  may  have  been,"  he  answered  carelessly, 
"  though  the  gulf  was  wider  then  than  it  is  now. 
I'll  try  and  think.  Perhaps  it  is  only  your  fancy." 

The  train  drew  in,  and  he  found  her  a  corner  seat, 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  129 

and  stood  talking  by  the  window,  about  common 
things. 

"  What  did  he  preach  about?  "  he  asked  her  un- 
expectedly. 

She  was  puzzled  for  the  moment.  "  Oh,  the  old 
clergyman,"  she  answered,  recollecting.  "  Oh,  Cal- 
vary. All  roads  lead  to  Calvary,  he  thought.  It 
was  rather  interesting." 

She  looked  back  at  the  end  of  the  platform.  He 
had  not  moved. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  PILE  of  correspondence  was  awaiting  her  and, 
standing  by  the  desk,  she  began  to  open  and 
read  it.  Suddenly  she  paused,  conscious  that  some 
one  had  entered  the  room  and,  turning,  she  saw 
Hilda.  She  must  have  left  the  door  ajar,  for  she 
had  heard  no  sound.  The  child  closed  the  door 
noiselessly  and  came  across,  holding  out  a  letter. 

"  Papa  told  me  to  give  you  this  the  moment  you 
came  in,"  she  said.  Joan  had  not  yet  taken  off  her 
things.  The  child  must  have  been  keeping  a  close 
watch.  Save  for  the  signature  it  contained  but  one 
line:  "I  have  accepted." 

Joan  replaced  the  letter  in  its  envelope,  and  laid 
it  down  upon  the  desk.  Unconsciously  a  smile 
played  about  her  lips. 

The  child  was  watching  her.  "  I'm  glad  you  per- 
suaded him,"  she  said. 

Joan  felt  a  flush  mount  to  her  face.  She  had  for- 
gotten Hilda  for  the  instant. 

She  forced  a  laugh.  "  Oh,  I  only  persuaded  him 
to  do  what  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  It  was  all  settled." 

"  No,  it  wasn't,"  answered  the  child.  "  Most  of 
them  were  against  it.  And  then  there  was 
Mamma,"  she  added  in  a  lower  tone. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Joan.  "Didn't 
she  wish  it?  " 

The  child  raised  her  eyes.     There  was  a  dull  an- 

130 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  131 

ger  in  them.  "  Oh,  what's  the  good  of  pretending," 
she  said.  "  He's  so  great.  He  could  be  the  Prime 
Minister  of  England  if  he  chose.  But  then  he  would 
have  to  visit  kings  and  nobles,  and  receive  them  at 

his  house,  and  Mamma "     She  broke  off  with  a 

passionate  gesture  of  the  small  thin  hands. 

Joan  was  puzzled  what  to  say.  She  knew  exactly 
what  she  ought  to  say:  what  she  would  have  said 
to  any  ordinary  child.  But  to  say  it  to  this  uncan- 
nily knowing  little  creature  did  not  promise  much 
good. 

'  Who  told  you  I  persuaded  him?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nobody,"  answered  the  child.     "  I  knew." 

Joan  seated  herself,  and  drew  the  child  towards 
her. 

"  It  isn't  as  terrible  as  you  think,"  she  said. 
"  Many  men  who  have  risen  and  taken  a  high  place 
in  the  world  were  married  to  kind,  good  women  un- 
able to  share  their  greatness.  There  was  Shakes- 
peare, you  know,  who  married  Anne  Hathaway  and 
had  a  clever  daughter.  She  was  just  a  nice,  homely 
body  a  few  years  older  than  himself.  And  he  seems 
to  have  been  very  fond  of  her;  and  was  always  run- 
ning down  to  Stratford  to  be  with  her." 

'  Yes,  but  he  didn't  bring  her  up  to  London,"  an- 
swered the  child.  "  Mamma  would  have  wanted  to 
come;  and  Papa  would  have  let  her,  and  wouldn't 
have  gone  to  see  Queen  Elizabeth  unless  she  had 
been  invited  too." 

Joan  wished  she  had  not  mentioned  Shakespeare. 
There  had  surely  been  others;  men  who  had  climbed 
up  and  carried  their  impossible  wives  with  them. 
But  she  couldn't  think  of  one,  just  then, 


132  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  We  must  help  her,"  she  answered  somewhat 
lamely.  "  She's  anxious  to  learn,  I  know." 

The  child  shook  her  head.  "  She  doesn't  under- 
stand," she  said.  "  And  Papa  won't  tell  her.  He 
says  it  would  only  hurt  her  and  do  no  good."  The 
small  hands  were  clenched.  "  I  shall  hate  her  if 
she  spoils  his  life." 

The  atmosphere  was  becoming  tragic.  Joan  felt 
the  need  of  escaping  from  it.  She  sprang  up. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  nonsensical,"  she  said.  "  Your 
father  isn't  the  only  man  married  to  a  woman  not 
as  clever  as  himself.  He  isn't  going  to  let  that  stop 
him.  And  your  mother's  going  to  learn  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  great  man  and  do  the  best  she  can.  And 
if  they  don't  like  her  they've  got  to  put  up  with  her. 
I  shall  talk  to  the  both  of  them."  A  wave  of  moth- 
erliness  towards  the  entire  Phillips  family  passed 
over  her.  It  included  Hilda.  She  caught  the  child 
to  her  and  gave  her  a  hug.  "  You  go  back  to 
school,"  she  said,  "  and  get  on  as  fast  as  you  can,  so 
that  you'll  be  able  to  be  useful  to  him." 

The  child  flung  her  arms  about  her.  '  You're  so 
beautiful  and  wonderful,"  she  said.  '  You  can  do 
anything.  I'm  so  glad  you  came." 

Joan  laughed.  It  was  surprising  how  easily  the 
problem  had  been  solved.  She  would  take  Mrs. 
Phillips  in  hand  at  once.  At  all  events  she  should 
be  wholesome  and  unobtrusive.  It  would  be  a  deli- 
cate mission,  but  Joan  felt  sure  of  her  own  tact.  She 
could  see  his  boyish  eyes  turned  upon  her  with  won- 
der and  gratitude. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  not  be  back  before 
I  went,"  said  the  child.  "  I  ought  to  have  gone  this 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  133 

afternoon,  but  Papa  let  me  stay  till  the  evening." 

"  You  will  help?  "  she  added,  fixing  on  Joan  her 
great,  grave  eyes. 

Joan  promised,  and  the  child  went  out.  She 
looked  pretty  when  she  smiled.  She  closed  the  door 
behind  her  noiselessly. 

It  occurred  to  Joan  that  she  would  like  to  talk 
matters  over  with  Greyson.  There  was  "  Clorin- 
da's  "  attitude  to  be  decided  upon;  and  she  was  in- 
terested to  know  what  view  he  himself  would  take. 
Of  course  he  would  be  on  Phillips's  side.  The  Eve- 
ning Gazette  had  always  supported  the  "  gas  and 
water  school"  of  socialism;  and  to  include  the  peo- 
ple's food  was  surely  only  an  extension  of  the  prin- 
ciple. She  rang  him  up  and  Miss  Greyson  answered, 
asking  her  to  come  round  to  dinner :  they  would  be 
alone.  And  she  agreed. 

The  Greysons  lived  in  a  small  house  squeezed 
into  an  angle  of  the  Outer  Circle,  overlooking  Re- 
gent's Park.  It  was  charmingly  furnished,  chiefly 
with  old  Chippendale.  The  drawing-room  made 
quite  a  picture.  It  was  home-like  and  restful  with 
its  faded  colouring,  and  absence  of  all  show  and  over- 
crowding. They  sat  there  after  dinner  and  discussed 
Joan's  news.  Miss  Greyson  was  repairing  a  piece 
of  old  embroidery  she  had  brought  back  with  her 
from  Italy;  and  Greyson  sat  smoking,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  and  his  long  legs  stretched  out  to- 
wards the  fire. 

"  Carleton  will  want  him  to  make  his  food  policy 
include  Tariff  Reform,"  he  said.  "  If  he  prove  pli- 
able, and  is  willing  to  throw  over  his  free  trade  prin- 
ciples, all  well  and  good." 


134  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  What's  Carleton  got  to  do  with  it?  "  demanded 
Joan  with  a  note  of  indignation. 

He  turned  his  head  towards  her  with  an  amused 
raising  of  the  eyebrows.  "  Carleton  owns  two  Lon- 
don dailies,"  he  answered,  "  and  is  in  treaty  for  a 
third:  together  with  a  dozen  others  scattered  about 
the  provinces.  Most  politicians  find  themselves, 
sooner  or  later,  convinced  by  his  arguments.  Phil- 
lips may  prove  the  exception." 

"  It  would  be  rather  interesting,  a  fight  between 
them,"  said  Joan.  "  Myself,  I  should  back  Phillips." 

"  He  might  win  through,"  mused  Greyson. 
"  He's  the  man  to  do  it,  if  anybody  could.  But  the 
odds  will  be  against  him." 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  said  Joan,  with  decision. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  yet  grasped  the  power 
of  the  Press,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  "  Phil- 
lips speaks  occasionally  to  five  thousand  people. 
Carleton  addresses  every  day  a  circle  of  five  million 
readers." 

"  Yes,  but  when  Phillips  does  speak,  he  speaks  to 
the  whole  country,"  retorted  Joan. 

"  Through  the  medium  of  Carleton  and  his  like ; 
and  just  so  far  as  they  allow  his  influence  to  perme- 
ate beyond  the  platform,"  answered  Greyson. 

"  But  they  report  his  speeches.  They  are  bound 
to,"  explained  Joan. 

"  It  doesn't  read  quite  the  same,"  he  answered. 
"  Phillips  goes  home  under  the  impression  that  he 
has  made  a  great  success  and  has  roused  the  coun- 
try. He  and  millions  of  other  readers  learn  from 
the  next  morning's  headlines  that  it  was  '  A  Tame 
Speech '  that  he  made.  What  sounded  to  him 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  135 

'  Loud  Cheers  '  have  sunk  to  mild  '  Hear,  Hears.' 
That  five  minutes'  hurricane  of  applause,  during 
which  wildly  excited  men  and  women  leapt  upon  the 
benches  and  roared  themselves  hoarse,  and  which  he 
felt  had  settled  the  whole  question,  he  searches  for 
in  vain.  A  few  silly  interjections,  probably  pre-ar- 
ranged by  Carleton's  young  lions,  become  '  renewed 
interruptions.'  The  report  is  strictly  truthful;  but 
the  impression  produced  is  that  Robert  Phillips  has 
failed  to  carry  even  his  own  people  with  him.  And 
then  follow  leaders  in  fourteen  widely-circulated 
Dailies,  stretching  from  the  Clyde  to  the  Severn, 
foretelling  how  Mr.  Robert  Phillips  could  regain 
his  waning  popularity  by  the  simple  process  of  adopt- 
ing Tariff  Reform:  or  whatever  the  pet  panacea  of 
Carleton  and  Co.  may,  at  the  moment,  happen  to 
be." 

"  Don't  make  us  out  all  alike,"  pleaded  his  sister 
with  a  laugh.  "  There  are  still  a  few  old-fashioned 
papers  that  do  give  their  opponents  fair  play." 

'  They  are  not  increasing  in  numbers,"  he  an- 
swered, "  and  the  Carleton  group  is.  There  is  no 
reason  why  in  another  ten  years  he  should  not  con- 
trol the  entire  popular  press  of  the  country.  He's 
got  the  genius  and  he's  got  the  means. 

'  The  cleverest  thing  he  has  done,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Joan,  "  is  your  Sunday  Post.  Up  till 
then,  the  working  classes  had  escaped  him.  With 
the  Sunday  Post,  he  has  solved  the  problem.  They 
open  their  mouths;  and  he  gives  them  their  politics 
wrapped  up  in  pictures  and  gossipy  pars." 

Miss  Greyson  rose  and  put  away  her  embroidery. 
"  But  what's  his  object?  "  she  said.  "  He  must  have 


136  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

more  money  than  he  can  spend;  and  he  works  like 
a  horse.  I  could  understand  it,  if  he  had  any  be- 
liefs." 

"  Oh,  we  can  all  persuade  ourselves  that  we  are 
the  Heaven-ordained  dictator  of  the  human  race," 
he  answered.  "  Love  of  power  is  at  the  bottom  of 
it.  Why  do  our  Rockefellers  and  our  Carnegies  con- 
demn themselves  to  the  existence  of  galley  slaves, 
ruining  their  digestions  so  that  they  never  can  en- 
joy a  square  meal.  It  isn't  the  money;  it's  the  trou- 
ble of  their  lives  how  to  get  rid  of  that.  It  is  the  no- 
toriety, the  power  that  they  are  out  for.  In  Carle- 
ton's  case,  it  is  to  feel  himself  the  power  behind  the 
throne;  to  know  that  he  can  make  and  un-make 
statesmen;  has  the  keys  of  peace  and  war  in  his 
pocket;  is  able  to  exclaim:  Public  opinion?  It  is 
I." 

"  It  can  be  a  respectable  ambition,"  suggested 
Joan. 

"  It  has  been  responsible  for  most  of  man's  mis- 
eries," he  answered.  "  Every  world's  conqueror 
meant  to  make  it  happy  after  he  had  finished  knock- 
ing it  about.  We  are  all  born  with  it,  thanks  to  the 
devil."  He  shifted  his  position  and  regarded  her 
with  critical  eyes.  "  You've  got  it  badly,"  he  said. 
"  I  can  see  it  in  the  tilt  of  your  chin  and  the  quiv- 
ering of  your  nostrils.  You  beware  of  it." 

Miss  Greyson  left  them.  She  had  to  finish  an 
article.  They  debated  "  Clorinda's  "  views;  and 
agreed  that,  as  a  practical  housekeeper,  she  would 
welcome  attention  being  given  to  the  question  of 
the  nation's  food.  The  Evening  Gazette  would 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  137 

support  Phillips  in  principle,  while  reserving  to  itself 
the  right  of  criticism  when  it  came  to  details. 

'What's  he  like  in  himself?"  he  asked  her. 
"  You've  been  seeing  something  of  him,  haven't 
you?" 

"  Oh,  a  little,"  she  answered.  "  He's  absolutely 
sincere;  and  he  means  business.  He  won't  stop  at 
the  bottom  of  the  ladder  now  he's  once  got  his  foot 
upon  it." 

"But  he's  quite  common,  isn't  he?"  he  asked 
again.  "  I've  only  met  him  in  public." 

"  No,  that's  precisely  what  he  isn't,"  answered 
Joan.  "  You  feel  that  he  belongs  to  no  class,  but 
his  own.  The  class  of  the  Abraham  Lincolns,  and 
the  Dantons." 

"  England's  a  different  proposition,"  he  mused. 
"  Society  counts  for  so  much  with  us.  I  doubt  if 
we  should  accept  even  an  Abraham  Lincoln:  unless 
in  some  supreme  crisis.  His  wife  rather  handicaps 
him,  too,  doesn't  she?  " 

"  She  wasn't  born  to  be  the  chatelaine  of  Down- 
ing Street,"  Joan  admitted.  "  But  it's  not  an  official 
position." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  that  it  isn't,"  he  laughed.  "  It's 
the  dinner-table  that  rules  in  England.  We  settle 
everything  round  a  dinner-table." 

She  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  in  a  high-backed 
chair.  She  never  cared  to  loll,  and  the  shaded  light 
from  the  electric  sconces  upon  the  mantelpiece  illum- 
ined her. 

"  If  the  world  were  properly  stage-managed, 
that's  what  you  ought  to  be,"  he  said,  "  the  wife  of 


138 

a  Prime  Minister.  I  can  see  you  giving  such  an  ex- 
cellent performance. 

"  I  must  talk  to  Mary,"  he  added,  "  see  if  we 
can't  get  you  off  on  some  promising  young  Under 
Secretary." 

"  Don't  give  me  ideas  above  my  station,"  laughed 
Joan.  "  I'm  a  journalist." 

"  That's  the  pity  of  it,"  he  said.  "  You're  wast- 
ing the  most  important  thing  about  you,  your  person- 
ality. You  would  do  more  good  in  a  drawing-room, 
influencing  the  rulers,  than  you  will  ever  do  hiding 
behind  a  pen.  It  was  the  drawing-room  that  made 
the  French  Revolution." 

The  firelight  played  about  her  hair.  "  I  suppose 
every  woman  dreams  of  reviving  the  old  French 
Salon,"  she  answered.  "  They  must  have  been  glor- 
iously interesting." 

He  was  leaning  forward  with  clasped  hands. 
"Why  shouldn't  she?"  he  said.  "The  reason 
that  our  drawing-rooms  have  ceased  to  lead  is  that 
our  beautiful  women  are  generally  frivolous  and  our 
clever  women  unfeminine.  What  we  are  waiting 
for  is  an  English  Madame  Roland." 

Joan  laughed.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  some  day,"  she 
answered. 

He  insisted  on  seeing  her  as  far  as  the  bus.  It 
was  a  soft,  mild  night;  and  they  walked  round  the 
Circle  to  Gloucester  Gate.  He  thought  there 
would  be  more  room  in  the  buses  at  that  point. 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  oftener,"  he  said. 
"  Mary  has  taken  such  a  liking  to  you.  If  you  care 
to  meet  people,  we  can  always  whip  up  somebody  of 
interest." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  139 

She  promised  that  she  would.  She  always  felt 
curiously  at  home  with  the  Greysons. 

They  were  passing  the  long  sweep  of  Chester  Ter- 
race. "  I  like  this  neighbourhood  with  its  early 
Victorian  atmosphere,"  she  said.  "  It  always  makes 
me  feel  quiet  and  good.  I  don't  know  why." 

"  I  like  the  houses,  too,"  he  said.  '  There's  a 
character  about  them.  You  don't  often  find  such  fine 
drawing-rooms  in  London." 

"  Don't  forget  your  promise,"  he  reminded  her, 
when  they  parted.  "  I  shall  tell  Mary  she  may 
write  to  you." 

She  met  Carleton  by  chance  a  day  or  two  later,  as 
she  was  entering  the  office.  "  I  want  to  see 
you,"  he  said;  and  took  her  up  with  him  into  his 
room. 

"  We  must  stir  the  people  up  about  this  food  bus- 
iness," he  said,  plunging  at  once  into  his  subject. 
"  Phillips  is  quite  right.  It  overshadows  every- 
thing. We  must  make  the  country  self-supporting. 
It  can  be  done  and  must.  If  a  war  were  to  be  sprung 
upon  us  we  could  be  starved  out  in  a  month.  Our 
navy,  in  face  of  these  new  submarines,  is  no  longer 
able  to  secure  us.  France  is  working  day  and  night 
upon  them.  It  may  be  a  bogey,  or  it  may  not.  If 
it  isn't,  she  would  have  us  at  her  mercy;  and  it's  too 
big  a  risk  to  run.  You  live  in  the  same  house  with 
him,  don't  you?  Do  you  often  see  him?  " 

"  Not  often,"  she  answered. 

He  was  reading  a  letter.  "  You  were  dining  there 
on  Friday  night,  weren't  you?  "  he  asked  her,  with- 
out looking  up. 

Joan  flushed.     What  did  he  mean  by  cross-exam- 


140  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ining  her  in  this  way?     She  was  not  at  all  used  to 
impertinence  from  the  opposite  sex. 

"  Your  information  is  quite  correct,"  she  an- 
swered. 

Her  anger  betrayed  itself  in  her  tone;  and  he  shot 
a  swift  glance  at  her. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  said.  "  A  mu- 
tual friend,  a  Mr.  Airlie,  happened  to  be  of  the 
party,  and  he  mentioned  you." 

He  threw  aside  the  letter.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
want  you  to  do,"  he  said.  "  It's  nothing  to  object 
to.  Tell  him  that  you've  seen  me  and  had  a  talk. 
I  understand  his  scheme  to  be  that  the  country  should 
grow  more  and  more  food  until  it  eventually  becomes 
self-supporting;  and  that  the  Government  should  con- 
trol the  distribution.  Tell  him  that  with  that  I'm 
heart  and  soul  in  sympathy;  and  would  like  to  help 
him."  He  pushed  aside  a  pile  of  papers  and,  lean- 
ing across  the  desk,  spoke  with  studied  deliberation. 
"  If  he  can  see  his  way  to  making  his  policy  depen- 
dent upon  Protection,  we  can  work  together." 

"  And  if  he  can't?  "  suggested  Joan. 

He  fixed  his  large,  colourless  eyes  upon  her. 
"  That's  where  you  can  help  him,"  he  answered. 
"  If  he  and  I  combine  forces,  we  can  pull  this  through 
in  spite  of  the  furious  opposition  that  it  is  going  to 
arouse.  Without  a  good  Press  he  is  helpless;  and 
where  is  he  going  to  get  his  Press  backing  if  he  turns 
me  down?  From  half  a  dozen  Socialist  papers 
whose  support  will  do  him  more  harm  than  good. 
If  he  will  bring  the  working  class  over  to  Protection 
I  will  undertake  that  the  Tariff  Reformers  and  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  141 

Agricultural  Interest  shall  accept  his  Socialism.  It 
will  be  a  victory  for  both  of  us. 

"  If  he  gains  his  end,  what  do  the  means  matter?  " 
he  continued,  as  Joan  did  not  answer.  "  Food  may 
be  dearer;  the  Unions  can  square  that  by  putting  up 
wages;  while  the  poor  devil  of  a  farm  labourer  will 
at  last  get  fair  treatment.  We  can  easily  insist  upon 
that.  What  do  you  think,  yourself?  " 

"  About  Protection,"  she  answered.  "  It's  one 
of  the  few  subjects  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind 
about." 

He  laughed.  "  You  will  find  all  your  pet  reforms 
depend  upon  it,  when  you  come  to  work  them  out," 
he  said.  "  You  can't  have  a  minimum  wage  without 
a  minimum  price." 

They  had  risen. 

"  I'll  give  him  your  message,"  said  Joan.  "  But  I 
don't  see  him  exchanging  his  principles  even  for  your 
support.  I  admit  it's  important." 

"  Talk  it  over  with  him,"  he  said.  "  And  bear 
this  in  mind  for  your  own  guidance."  He  took  a 
step  forward,  which  brought  his  face  quite  close  to 
hers:  "  If  he  fails  and  all  his  life's  work  goes  for 
nothing,  I  shall  be  sorry;  but  I  shan't  break  my  heart. 
He  will." 

Joan  dropped  a  note  into  Phillips's  letter-box  on 
her  return  home,  saying  briefly  that  she  wished  to  see 
him;  and  he  sent  up  answer  asking  her  if  she  would 
come  to  the  gallery  that  evening,  and  meet  him  after 
his  speech,  which  would  be  immediately  following  the 
dinner  hour. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  risen  since  his  appoint- 


142  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ment,  and  he  was  received  with  general  cheers.  He 
stood  out  curiously  youthful  against  the  background 
of  grey-haired  and  bald-headed  men  behind  him;  and 
there  was  youth  also  in  his  clear,  ringing  voice  that 
not  even  the  vault-like  atmosphere  of  that  shadow- 
less  chamber  could  altogether  rob  of  its  vitality. 
He  spoke  simply  and  good-humouredly,  without  any 
attempt  at  rhetoric,  relying  chiefly  upon  a  crescendo 
of  telling  facts  that  gradually,  as  he  proceeded, 
roused  the  House  to  that  tense  stillness  that  comes 
to  it  when  it  begins  to  think. 

"  A  distinctly  dangerous  man,"  Joan  overheard  a 
little  old  lady  behind  her  comment  to  a  friend.  "  If 
I  didn't  hate  him,  I  should  like  him." 

He  met  her  in  the  corridor,  and  they  walked  up 
and  down  and  talked,  too  absorbed  to  be  aware  of 
the  curious  eyes  that  were  turned  upon  them.  Joan 
gave  him  Carleton's  message. 

"  It  was  clever  of  him  to  make  use  of  you,"  he 
said.  "  If  he'd  sent  it  through  anybody  else,  I'd 
have  published  it." 

"  You  don't  think  it  even  worth  considering?  " 
suggested  Joan. 

"  Protection?  "  he  flashed  out  scornfully.  '  Yes, 
I've  heard  of  that.  I've  listened,  as  a  boy,  while  the 
old  men  told  of  it  to  one  another,  in  thin,  piping 
voices,  round  the  fireside;  how  the  labourers  were 
flung  eight-and-sixpence  a  week  to  die  on,  and  the 
men  starved  in  the  towns;  while  the  farmers  kept 
their  hunters,  and  got  drunk  each  night  on  fine  old 
crusted  port.  Do  you  know  what  their  toast  was 
in  the  big  hotels  on  market  day,  with  the  windows 
open  to  the  street : '  To  a  long  war  and  a  bloody  one.' 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  143 

It  would  be  their  toast  tomorrow  if  they  had  their 
way.  Does  he  think  I  am  going  to  be  a  party  to  the 
putting  of  the  people's  neck  again  under  their  piti- 
less yoke?  " 

"  But  the  people  are  more  powerful  now,"  argued 
Joan.  "  If  the  farmer  demanded  higher  prices,  they 
could  demand  higher  wages." 

"  They  would  never  overtake  the  farmer,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  laugh.  "  And  the  last  word  would 
always  be  with  him.  I  am  out  to  get  rid  of  the  land- 
lords," he  continued,  "  not  to  establish  them  as  the 
permanent  rulers  of  the  country,  as  they  are 
in  Germany.  The  people  are  more  powerful  — 
just  a  little,  because  they  are  no  longer  dependent 
on  the  land.  They  can  say  to  the  farmer,  '  All  right, 
my  son,  if  that's  your  figure,  I'm  going  to  the  shop 
next  door  —  to  South  America,  to  Canada,  to  Rus- 
sia.' It  isn't  a  satisfactory  solution.  I  want  to  see 
England  happy  and  healthy  before  I  bother  about  the 
Argentine.  It  drives  our  men  into  the  slums  when 
they  might  be  living  fine  lives  in  God's  fresh  air. 
In  the  case  of  war  it  might  be  disastrous.  There  I 
agree  with  him.  We  must  be  able  to  shut  our  door 
without  fear  of  having  to  open  it  ourselves  to  ask  for 
bread.  How  would  Protection  accomplish  that? 
Did  he  tell  you?" 

"  Don't  eat  me,"  laughed  Joan.  "  I  haven't  been 
sent  to  you  as  a  missionary.  I'm  only  a  humble  mes- 
senger. I  suppose  the  argument  is  that,  good 
profits  assured  to  him,  the  farmer  would  bustle  up 
and  produce  more." 

"  Can  you  see  him  bustling  up  ?  "  he  answered  with 
a  laugh;  "  organizing  himself  into  a  body,  and  work- 


144  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ing  the  thing  out  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  pub- 
lic weal  ?  I'll  tell  you  what  nine-tenths  of  him  would 
do :  grow  just  as  much  or  little  as  suited  his  own  pur- 
poses; and  then  go  to  sleep.  And  Protection  would 
be  his  security  against  ever  being  awakened." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  like  him,"  Joan  com- 
mented. 

"  He  will  be  all  right  in  his  proper  place,"  he  an- 
swered: "  as  the  servant  of  the  public:  told  what  to 
do,  and  turned  out  of  his  job  if  he  doesn't  do  it. 
My  scheme  does  depend  upon  Protection.  You  can 
tell  him  that.  But  this  time,  it's  going  to  be  Pro- 
tection for  the  people." 

They  were  at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor;  and  the 
few  others  still  promenading  were  some  distance 
away.  She  had  not  delivered  the  whole  of  her  mes- 
sage. She  crossed  to  a  seat,  and  he  followed  her. 
She  spoke  with  her  face  turned  away  from  him. 

"  You  have  got  to  consider  the  cost  of  refusal," 
she  said.  "His  offer  wasn't  help  or  neutrality:  it 
was  help  or  opposition  by  every  means  in  his  power. 
He  left  me  in  no  kind  of  doubt  as  to  that.  He's  not 
used  to  being  challenged  and  he  won't  be  squeamish. 
You  will  have  the  whole  of  his  Press  against  you, 
and  every  other  journalistic  and  political  influence 
that  he  possesses.  He's  getting  a  hold  upon  the 
working  classes.  The  Sunday  Post  has  an  enormous 
sale  in  the  manufacturing  towns;  and  he's  talking 
of  starting  another.  Are  you  strong  enough  to  fight 
him?" 

She  very  much  wanted  to  look  at  him,  but  she 
would  not.  It  seemed  to  her  quite  a  time  before  he 
replied,  . 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  145 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  strong  enough  to  fight 
him.  Shall  rather  enjoy  doing  it.  And  it's  time 
that  somebody  did.  Whether  I'm  strong  enough  to 
win  has  got  to  be  seen." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  then.  She  won- 
dered why  she  had  ever  thought  him  ugly. 

"You  can  face  it,"  she  said:  "the  possibility  of 
all  your  life's  work  being  wasted?  " 

"  It  won't  be  wasted,"  he  answered.  "  The  land 
is  there.  I've  seen  it  from  afar  and  it's  a  good  land, 
a  land  where  no  man  shall  go  hungry.  If  not  I,  an- 
other shall  lead  the  people  into  it.  I  shall  have  pre- 
pared the  way." 

She  liked  him  for  that  touch  of  exaggeration. 
She  was  so  tired  of  the  men  who  make  out  all  things 
little,  including  themselves  and  their  own  work. 
After  all,  was  it  exaggeration?  Might  he  not  have 
been  chosen  to  lead  the  people  out  of  bondage  to  a 
land  where  there  should  be  no  more  fear? 

"You're  not  angry  with  me?"  he  asked.  "I 
haven't  been  rude,  have  I  ?  " 

"Abominably  rude,"  she  answered;  "you've  de- 
fied my  warnings,  and  treated  my  embassy  with  con- 
tempt." She  turned  to  him  and  their  eyes  met.  "  I 
should  have  despised  you,  if  you  hadn't,"  she  added. 

There  was  a  note  of  exultation  in  her  voice;  and, 
•as  if  in  answer,  something  leapt  into  his  eyes  that 
seemed  to  claim  her.  Perhaps  it  was  well  that  just 
then  the  bell  rang  for  a  division;  and  the  moment 
passed. 

He  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  We  will  fight 
him,"  he  said.  "  And  you  can  tell  him  this,  if  he 
asks,  that  I'm  going  straight  for  him.  Parliament 


146  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

may  as  well  close  down  if  a  few  men  between  them 
are  to  be  allowed  to  own  the  entire  Press  of  the  coun- 
try, and  stifle  every  voice  that  does  not  shout  their 
bidding.  We  haven't  dethroned  kings  to  put  up  a 
newspaper  Boss.  He  shall  have  all  the  fighting  he 
wants." 

They  met  more  often  from  that  day,  for  Joan  was 
frankly  using  her  two  columns  in  the  Sunday  Post  to 
propagate  his  aims.  Carleton,  to  her  surprise,  made 
no  objection.  Nor  did  he  seek  to  learn  the  result 
of  his  ultimatum.  It  looked,  they  thought,  as  if  he 
had  assumed  acceptance;  and  was  willing  for  Phil- 
lips to  choose  his  own  occasion.  Meanwhile  replies 
to  her  articles  reached  Joan  in  weekly  increasing 
numbers.  There  seemed  to  be  a  wind  arising,  blow- 
ing towards  Protection.  Farm  labourers,  espe- 
cially, appeared  to  be  enthusiastic  for  its  coming. 
From  their  ill-spelt,  smeared  epistles,  one  gathered 
that,  after  years  of  doubt  and  hesitation,  they  had  — 
however  reluctantly  —  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
without  it  there  could  be  no  hope  for  them.  Factory 
workers,  miners,  engineers  —  more  fluent,  less  apol- 
ogetic —  wrote  as  strong  supporters  of  Phillips's 
scheme;  but  saw  clearly  how  upon  Protection  its  suc- 
cess depended.  Shopmen,  clerks  —  only  occasion- 
ally ungrammatical  —  felt  sure  that  Robert  Phillips, 
tried  friend  of  the  poor,  would  insist  upon  the  boon 
of  Protection  being  no  longer  held  back  from  the 
people.  Wives  and  mothers  claimed  it  as  their 
children's  birthright.  Similar  views  got  themselves 
at  the  same  time,  into  the  correspondence  columns  of 
Carleton's  other  numerous  papers.  Evidently  De- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  147 

mocracy  had  been  throbbing  with  a  passion  for  Pro- 
tection hitherto  unknown,  even  to  itself. 

"  He  means  it  kindly,"  laughed  Phillips.  "  He 
is  offering  me  an  excuse  to  surrender  gracefully. 
We  must  have  a  public  meeting  or  two  after  Christ- 
mas, and  clear  the  ground."  They  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  speaking  in  the  plural. 

Mrs.  Phillips's  conversion  Joan  found  more  dif- 
ficult than  she  had  anticipated.  She  had  persuaded 
Phillips  to  take  a  small  house  and  let  her  furnish  it 
upon  the  hire  system.  Joan  went  with  her  to  the 
widely  advertised  "  Emporium  "  in  the  City  Road, 
meaning  to  advise  her.  But,  in  the  end,  she  gave  it 
up  out  of  sheer  pity.  Nor  would  her  advice  have 
served  much  purpose,  confronted  by  the  "  rich  and 
varied  choice  "  provided  for  his  patrons  by  Mr. 
Krebs,  the  "  Furnisher  for  Connoisseurs." 

"  We've  never  had  a  home  exactly,"  explained 
Mrs.  Phillips,  during  their  journey  in  the  tram. 
"  It's  always  been  lodgings,  up  to  now.  Nice 
enough,  some  of  them;  but  you  know  what  I  mean; 
everybody  else's  taste  but  your  own.  I've  always 
fancied  a  little  house  with  one's  own  things  in  it. 
You  know,  things  that  you  can  get  fond  of." 

Oh,  the  things  she  was  going  to  get  fond  of !  The 
things  that  her  poor,  round  foolish  eyes  gloated  upon 
the  moment  that  she  saw  them !  Joan  tried  to  en- 
list the  shopman  on  her  side,  descending  even  to  flir- 
tation. Unfortunately  he  was  a  young  man  with  a 
high  sense  of  duty,  convinced  that  his  employer's  in- 
terests lay  in  his  support  of  Mrs.  Phillips.  The 
sight  of  the  furniture  that,  between  them,  they  se-> 


148  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Icctcd  for  the  dining-room  gave  Joan  a  quite  distinct 
internal  pain.  They  ascended  to  the  floor  above, 
devoted  to  the  exhibition  of  "  Recherche  drawing- 
room  suites."  Mrs.  Phillips's  eyes  instinctively  fas- 
tened with  passionate  desire  upon  the  most  atrocious. 
Joan  grew  vehement.  It  was  impossible. 

"  I  always  was  a  one  for  cheerful  colours,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Phillips. 

•  Even  the  shopman  wavered.  Joan  pressed  her 
advantage;  directed  Mrs.  Phillips's  attention  to 
something  a  little  less  awful.  Mrs.  Phillips  yielded. 

"  Of  course  you  know  best,  dear,"  she  admitted. 
"  Perhaps  I  am  a  bit  too  fond  of  bright  things." 

The  victory  was  won.  Mrs.  Phillips  had  turned 
away.  The  shopman  was  altering  the  order.  Joan 
moved  towards  the  door,  and  accidentally  caught 
sight  of  Mrs.  Phillips's  face.  The  flabby  mouth  was 
trembling.  A  tear  was  running  down  the  painted 
cheek. 

Joan  slipped  her  hand  through  the  other's  arm. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  you're  not  right  after  all,"  she 
said,  fixing  a  critical  eye  upon  the  rival  suites.  "  It 
is  a  bit  mousey,  that  other." 

The  order  was  once  more  corrected.  Joan  had 
the  consolation  of  witnessing  the  childish  delight  that 
came  again  into  the  foolish  face ;  but  felt  angry  with 
herself  at  her  own  weakness. 

It  was  the  woman's  feebleness  that  irritated  her. 
If  only  she  had  shown  a  spark  of  fight,  Joan  could 
have  been  firm.  Poor  feckless  creature,  what  could 
have  ever  been  her  attraction  for  Phillips! 

She  followed,  inwardly  fuming,  while  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips continued  to  pile  monstrosity  upon  monstrosity. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  149 

What  would  Phillips  think?  And  what  would  Hil- 
da's eyes  say  when  they  looked  upon  that  recherche 
drawing-room  suite?  Hilda,  who  would  have  had 
no  sentimental  compunctions !  The  woman  would 
be  sure  to  tell  them  both  that  she,  Joan,  had  accom- 
panied her  and  helped  in  the  choosing.  The  whole 
ghastly  house  would  be  exhibited  to  every  visitor  as 
the  result  of  their  joint  taste.  She  could  hear  Mr. 
Airlie's  purring  voice  congratulating  her. 

She  ought  to  have  insisted  on  their  going  to  a  de- 
cent shop.  The  mere  advertisement  ought  to  have 
forewarned  her.  It  was  the  posters  that  had  cap- 
tured Mrs.  Phillips:  those  dazzling  apartments 
where  bejewelled  society  reposed  upon  the  "  high- 
class  but  inexpensive  designs  "  of  Mr.  Krebs.  Ar- 
tists ought  to  have  more  self-respect  than  to  sell  their 
talents  for  such  purposes. 

The  contract  was  concluded  in  Mr.  Krebs'  private 
office :  a  very  stout  gentleman  with  a  very  thin  voice, 
whose  dream  had  always  been  to  one  day  be  of  serv- 
ice to  the  renowned  Mr.  Robert  Phillips.  He  was 
clearly  under  the  impression  that  he  had  now  accom- 
plished it.  Even  as  Mrs.  Phillips  took  up  the  pen 
to  sign,  the  wild  idea  occurred  to  Joan  of  snatching 
the  paper  away  from  her,  hustling  her  into  a  cab, 
and  in  some  quiet  street  or  square  making  the  woman 
see  for  herself  that  she  was  a  useless  fool;  that  the 
glowing  dreams  and  fancies  she  had  cherished  in  her 
silly  head  for  fifteen  years  must  all  be  given  up;  that 
she  must  stand  aside,  knowing  herself  of  no  account. 

It  could  be  done.  She  felt  it.  If  only  one  could 
summon  up  the  needful  brutality.  If  only  one  could 
stifle  that  still,  small  voice  of  Pity. 


150 

Mrs.  Phillips  signed  amid  splutterings  and  blots. 
Joan  added  her  signature  as  witness. 

She  did  effect  an  improvement  in  the  poor  lady's 
dress.  On  Madge's  advice  she  took  her  to  a  vol- 
uble little  woman  in  the  Earl's  Court  Road  who  was 
struck  at  once  by  Madame  Phillips's  remarkable  re- 
semblance to  the  Baroness  von  Stein.  Had  not  Joan 
noticed  it?  Whatever  suited  the  Baroness  von 
Stein  —  allowed  by  common  consent  to  be  one  of 
the  best-dressed  women  in  London  —  was  bound  to 
show  up  Madame  Phillips  to  equal  advantage.  By 
curious  coincidence  a  costume  for  the  Baroness  had 
been  put  in  hand  only  the  day  before.  It  was  sent 
for  and  pinned  upon  the  delighted  Madame  Phillips. 
Perfection!  As  the  Baroness  herself  would  always 
say:  "  My  frock  must  be  a  framework  for  my  per- 
sonality. It  must  never  obtrude."  The  supremely 
well-dressed  woman !  One  never  notices  what  she 
has  on :  that  is  the  test.  It  seemed  it  was  what  Mrs. 
Phillips  had  always  felt  herself.  Joan  could  have 
kissed  the  voluble,  emphatic  little  woman. 

But  the  dyed  hair  and  the  paint  put  up  a  fight  for 
themselves. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  something  very  brave,"  said 
Joan.  She  had  invited  herself  to  tea  with  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips, and  they  were  alone  in  the  small  white-panelled 
room  that  they  were  soon  to  say  good-bye  to.  The 
new  house  would  be  ready  at  Christmas.  "  It  will 
be  a  little  hard  at  first,"  continued  Joan,  "  but  after- 
wards you  will  be  glad  that  you  have  done  it.  It  is 
a  duty  you  owe  to  your  position  as  the  wife  of  a  great 
leader  of  the  people." 

The  firelight  snowed  to  Joan  a  comically  fright- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  151 

ened  face,  with  round,  staring  eyes  and  an  open 
mouth. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?  "  she  faltered. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  just  yourself,"  said  Joan;  "  a 
kind,  good  woman  of  the  people,  who  will  win  their 
respect,  and  set  them  an  example."  She  moved 
across  and  seating  herself  on  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips's  chair,  touched  lightly  with  her  hand  the  flaxen 
hair  and  the  rouged  cheek.  "  I  want  you  to  get  rid 
of  all  this,"  she  whispered.  "  It  isn't  worthy  of 
you.  Leave  it  to  the  silly  dolls  and  the  bad  women." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Joan  felt  the  tears 
trickling  between  her  fingers. 

"  You  haven't  seen  me,"  came  at  last  in  a  thin, 
broken  voice. 

Joan  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  "  Let's  try  it," 
she  whispered. 

A  little  choking  sound  was  the  only  answer.  But 
the  woman  rose  and,  Joan  following,  they  stole  up- 
stairs into  the  bedroom  and  Mrs.  Phillips  turned  the 
key. 

It  took  a  long  time,  and  Joan,  seated  on  the  bed, 
remembered  a  night  when  she  had  taken  a  trapped 
mouse  (if  only  he  had  been  a  quiet  mouse!)  into 
the  bathroom  and  had  waited  while  it  drowned.  It 
was  finished  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Phillips  stood  revealed 
with  her  hair  down,  showing  streaks  of  dingy  brown. 

Joan  tried  to  enthuse;  but  the  words  came  halt- 
ingly. She  suggested  to  Joan  a  candle  that  some 
wind  had  suddenly  blown  out.  The  paint  and  pow- 
der had  been  obvious,  but  at  least  it  had  given  her 
the  mask  of  youth.  She  looked  old  and  withered. 
The  life  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her. 


152  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  You  see,  dear,  I  began  when  I  was  young,"  she 
explained;  "  and  he  has  always  seen  me  the  same.  I 
don't  think  I  could  live  like  this." 

The  painted  doll  that  the  child  fancied !  the  paint 
washed  off  and  the  golden  hair  all  turned  to  drab? 
Could  one  be  sure  of  "  getting  used  to  it,"  of  "  liking 
it  better"?  And  the  poor  bewildered  doll  itself! 
How  could  one  expect  to  make  of  it  a  statue :  "  The 
Woman  of  the  People."  One  could  only  bruise  it. 

It  ended  in  Joan's  promising  to  introduce  her  to 
discreet  theatrical  friends  who  would  tell  her  of  cos- 
metics less  injurious  to  the  skin,  and  advise  her  gen- 
erally in  the  ancient  and  proper  art  of  "  making  up." 

It  was  not  the  end  she  had  looked  for.  Joan 
sighed  as  she  closed  her  door  behind  her.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  it?  On  the  one  hand  that  unim- 
peachable law,  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  great- 
est number;  the  sacred  cause  of  Democracy;  the 
moral  Uplift  of  the  people ;  Sanity,  Wisdom,  Truth, 
the  higher  Justice;  all  the  forces  on  which  she  was 
relying  for  the  regeneration  of  the  world  —  all  ar- 
rayed in  stern  demand  that  the  flabby,  useless  Mrs. 
Phillips  should  be  sacrificed  for  the  general  good. 
Only  one  voice  had  pleaded  for  foolish,  helpless  Mrs. 
Phillips  —  and  had  conquered.  The  still,  small 
voice  of  Pity. 


CHAPTER  X 

ARTHUR  sprang  himself  upon  her  a  little  be- 
fore Christmas.  He  was  full  of  a  great  proj- 
ect. It  was  that  she  and  her  father  should  spend 
Christmas  with  his  people  at  Birmingham.  Her 
father  thought  he  would  like  to  see  his  brother;  they 
had  not  often  met  of  late,  and  Birmingham  would  be 
nearer  for  her  than  Liverpool. 

Joan  had  no  intention  of  being  lured  into  the  Bir- 
mingham parlour.  She  thought  she  could  see  it 
in  a  scheme  for  her  gradual  entanglement.  Besides, 
she  was  highly  displeased.  She  had  intended  asking 
her  father  to  come  to  Brighton  with  her.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  she  had  forgotten  all  about  Christmas; 
and  the  idea  only  came  into  her  head  while  explain- 
ing to  Arthur  how  his  impulsiveness  had  interfered 
with  it.  Arthur,  crestfallen,  suggested  telegrams. 
It  would  be  quite  easy  to  alter  everything;  and  of 
course  her  father  would  rather  be  with  her,  wherever 
it  was.  But  it  seemed  it  was  too  late.  She  ought  to 
have  been  consulted.  A  sudden  sense  of  proprietor- 
ship in  her  father  came  to  her  assistance  and  added 
pathos  to  her  indignation.  Of  course,  now,  she 
would  have  to  spend  Christmas  alone.  She  was  far 
too  busy  to  think  of  Birmingham.  She  could  have 
managed  Brighton.  Argument  founded  on  the 
length  of  journey  to  Birmingham  as  compared  with 
the  journey  to  Brighton  she  refused  to  be  drawn  into. 

153 


154  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Her  feelings  had  been  too  deeply  wounded  to  permit 
of  descent  into  detail. 

But  the  sinner,  confessing  his  fault,  is  entitled  to 
forgiveness,  and,  having  put  him  back  into  his  proper 
place,  she  let  him  kiss  her  hand.  She  even  went  fur- 
ther and  let  him  ask  her  out  to  dinner.  As  the  re- 
sult of  her  failure  to  reform  Mrs.  Phillips  she  was 
feeling  dissatisfied  with  herself.  It  was  an  unpleas- 
ant sensation  and  somewhat  new  to  her  experience. 
An  evening  spent  in  Arthur's  company  might  do  her 
good.  The  experiment  proved  successful.  He 
really  was  quite  a  dear  boy.  Eyeing  him  thought- 
fully through  the  smoke  of  her  cigarette,  it  occurred 
to  her  how  like  he  was  to  Guide's  painting  of  St.  Se- 
bastian; those  soft,  dreamy  eyes  and  that  beautiful, 
almost  feminine,  face  !  There  always  had  been  a  sus- 
picion of  the  saint  about  him,  even  as  a  boy:  nothing 
one  could  lay  hold  of:  just  that  odd  suggestion  of  a 
shadow  intervening  between  him  and  the  world. 

It  seemed  a  favourable  opportunity  to  inform  him 
of  that  fixed  determination  of  hers:  never  —  in  all 
probability  —  to  marry:  but  to  devote  her  life  to  her 
work.  She  was  feeling  very  kindly  towards  him; 
and  was  able  to  soften  her  decision  with  touches  of 
gentle  regret.  He  did  not  appear  in  the  least  up- 
set. But  thought  that  her  duty  might  demand,  later 
on,  that  she  should  change  her  mind:  that  was  if 
fate  should  offer  her  some  noble  marriage  giving  her 
wider  opportunity. 

She  was  a  little  piqued  at  his  unexpected  attitude 
of  aloofness.  What  did  he  mean  by  a  "  noble  mar- 
riage " — to  a  Duke,  or  something  of  that  sort? 

He  did  not  think  the  candidature  need  be  con- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  155 

fined  to  Dukes,  though  he  had  no  objection  to  a 
worthy  Duke.  He  meant  any  really  great  man  who 
would  help  her  and  whom  she  could  help. 

She  promised,  somewhat  shortly,  to  consider  the 
matter,  whenever  the  Duke,  or  other  class  of  noble- 
man, should  propose  to  'her.  At  present  no  sign  of 
him  had  appeared  above  the  horizon.  Her  own 
idea  was  that,  if  she  lived  long  enough,  she  would 
become  a  spinster.  Unless  some  one  took  pity  on 
her  when  she  was  old  and  decrepit  and  past  her  work. 

There  was  a  little  humorous  smile  about  his  mouth. 
But  his  eyes  were  serious  and  pleading. 

ic  When  shall  I  know  that  you  are  old  and  de- 
crepit? "  he  asked. 

She  was  not  quite  sure.  She  thought  it  would  be 
when  her  hair  was  grey  —  or  rather  white.  She  had 
been  informed  by  experts  that  her  peculiar  shade  of 
hair  went  white,  not  grey. 

"  I  shall  ask  you  to  marry  me  when  your  hair  is 
white,"  he  said.  "May  I?" 

It  did  not  suggest  any  overwhelming  impatience. 
'  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  In  case  you  haven't  mar- 
ried yourself,  and  forgotten  all  about  me." 

"  I  shall  keep  you  to  your  promise,"  he  said  quite 
gravely. 

She  felt  the  time  had  come  to  speak  seriously.  "  I 
want  you  to  marry,"  she  said,  "  and  be  happy.  I 
shall  be  troubled  if  you  don't." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  those  shy,  worshipping 
eyes  of  his  that  always  made  her  marvel  at  her  own 
wonderfulness. 

"  It  need  not  do  that,"  he  answered.  "  It  would 
be  beautiful  to  be  with  you  always  so  that  I  might 


156  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

serve  you.  But  I  am  quite  happy,  loving  you.  Let 
me  see  you  now  and  then :  touch  you  and  hear  your 
voice." 

Behind  her  drawn-down  lids,  she  offered  up  a  lit- 
tle prayer  that  she  might  always  be  worthy  of  his 
homage.  She  didn't  know  that  it  would  make  no 
difference  to  him. 

She  walked  with  him  to  Euston  and  saw  him  into 
the  train.  He  had  given  up  his  lodgings  and  was 
living  with  her  father  at  The  Pines.  They  were 
busy  on  a  plan  for  securing  the  co-operation  of  the 
workmen,  and  she  promised  to  run  down  and  hear  all 
about  it.  She  would  not  change  her  mind  about  Bir- 
mingham, but  sent  every  one  her  love. 

She  wished  she  had  gone  when  it  came  to  Christ- 
mas Day.  This  feeling  of  loneliness  was  growing 
upon  her.  The  Phillips  had  gone  up  north;  and  the 
Greysons  to  some  relations  of  theirs :  swell  country 
people  in  Hampshire.  Flossie  was  on  a  sea  voyage 
with  Sam  and  his  mother,  and  even  Madge  had  been 
struck  homesick.  It  happened  to  be  a  Sunday,  too, 
of  all  days  in  the  week,  and  London  in  a  drizzling 
rain  was  just  about  the  limit.  She  worked  till  late  in 
the  afternoon,  but,  sitting  down  to  her  solitary  cup  of 
tea,  she  felt  she  wanted  to  howl.  From  the  base- 
ment came  faint  sounds  of  laughter.  Her  landlord 
and  lady  were  entertaining  guests.  If  they  had  not 
been  she  would  have  found  some  excuse  for  running 
down  and  talking  to  them,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes. 

Suddenly  the  vision  of  old  Chelsea  Church  rose  up 
before  her  with  its  little  motherly  old  pew-opener. 
She  had  so  often  been  meaning  to  go  and  see  her 
again,  but  something  had  always  interfered.  She 


All  Eoads  Lead  to  Calvary  157 

hunted  through  her  drawers  and  found  a  compara- 
tively sober-coloured  shawl,  and  tucked  it  under  her 
cloak.  The  service  was  just  commencing  when  she 
reached  the  church.  Mary  Stopperton  showed  her 
into  a  seat  and  evidently  remembered  her.  "  I  want 
to  see  you  afterwards,"  she  whispered;  and  Mary 
Stopperton  had  smiled  and  nodded.  The  service, 
with  its  need  for  being  continually  upon  the  move, 
bored  her;  she  was  not  in  the  mood  for  it.  And  the 
sermon,  preached  by  a  young  curate  who  had  not  vet 
got  over  his  Oxford  drawl,  was  uninteresting.  She 
had  half  hoped  that  the  wheezy  old  clergyman,  who 
had  preached  about  Calvary  on  the  evening  she  had 
first  visited  the  church,  would  be  there  again.  She 
wondered  what  had  become  of  him,  and  if  it  were 
really  a  fact  that  she  had  known  him  when  she  was 
a  child,  or  only  her  fancy.  It  was  strange  how 
vividly  her  memory  of  him  seemed  to  pervade  the 
little  church.  She  had  the  feeling  he  was  watching 
her  from  the  shadows.  She  waited  for  Mary  in  the 
vestibule,  and  gave  her  the  shawl,  making  her  swear 
on  the  big  key  of  the  church  door  that  she  would 
wear  it  herself  and  not  give  it  away.  The  little  old 
pew-opener's  pink  and  white  face  flushed  with  delight 
as  she  took  it,  and  the  thin,  work-worn  hands  fin- 
gered it  admiringly.  "But  I  may  lend  it?"  she 
pleaded. 

They  turned  up  Church  Street.  Joan  confided  to 
Mary  what  a  rotten  Christmas  she  had  had,  all  by 
herself,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to  except  her  land- 
lady, who  had  brought  her  meals  and  had  been  in 
such  haste  to  get  away. 

"  I  don't  know  what  made  me  think  of  you,"  she 


158  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

said.     "  I'm  so  glad  I  did."     She  gave  the  little  old 
lady  a  hug. 

Mary  laughed.  "Where  are  you  going  now, 
dearie?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  so  much  now,"  answered  Joan. 
"  Now  that  I've  seen  a  friendly  face,  I  shall  go  home 
and  go  to  bed  early." 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  silence.  Mary 
slipped  her  hand  in  Joan's.  "  You  wouldn't  care  to 
come  home  and  have  a  bit  of  supper  with  me,  would 
you,  dearie?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  may  I?  "  answered  Joan. 

Mary's  hand  gave  Joan's  a  little  squeeze.  "  You 
won't  mind  if  anybody  drops  in?  "  she  said.  '  They 
do  sometimes  of  a  Sunday  evening." 

"  You  don't  mean  a  party?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  No,  dear,"  answered  Mary.  "  It's  only  one  or 
two  who  have  nowhere  else  to  go." 

Joan  laughed.  She  thought  she  would  be  a  fit 
candidate. 

"  You  see,  it  makes  company  for  me,"  explained 
Mary. 

Mary  lived  in  a  tiny  house  behind  a  strip  of  gar- 
den. It  stood  in  a  narrow  side  street  between  two 
public-houses,  and  was  covered  with  ivy.  It  had  two 
windows  above  and  a  window  and  a  door  below. 
The  upstairs  rooms  belonged  to  the  churchwardens 
and  were  used  as  a  storehouse  for  old  parish  regis- 
ters, deemed  of  little  value.  Mary  Stopperton  and 
her  bedridden  husband  lived  in  the  two  rooms  below. 
Mary  unlocked  the  door,  and  Joan  passed  in  and 
waited.  Mary  lit  a  candle  that  was  standing  on  a 
bracket  and  turned  to  lead  the  way. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  159 

"  Shall  I  shut  the  door?  "  suggested  Joan. 

Mary  blushed  like  a  child  that  has  been  found  out 
just  as  it  was  hoping  that  it  had  not  been  noticed. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  dearie,"  she  explained. 
'  They  know,  if  they  find  it  open,  that  I'm  in." 

The  little  room  looked  very  cosy  when  Mary  had 
made  up  the  fire  and  lighted  the  lamp.  She  seated 
Joan  in  the  worn  horsehair  easy-chair;  out  of  which 
one  had  to  be  careful  one  did  not  slip  on  to  the  floor; 
and  spread  her  handsome  shawl  over  the  back  of  the 
dilapidated  sofa. 

'  You  won't  mind  my  running  away  for  a  min- 
ute," she  said.  "  I  shall  only  be  in  the  next  room." 

Through  the  thin  partition,  Joan  heard  a  constant 
shrill,  complaining  voice.  At  times,  it  rose  into  an 
angry  growl.  Mary  looked  in  at  the  door. 

l<  I'm  just  running  round  to  the  doctor's,"  she 
whispered.  "  His  medicine  hasn't  come.  I  shan't 
be  long." 

Joan  offered  to  go  in  and  sit  with  the  invalid.  But 
Mary  feared  the  exertion  of  talking  might  be  too 
much  for  him.  "  He  gets  so  excited,"  she  explained. 
She  slipped  out  noiselessly. 

It  seemed,  in  spite  of  its  open  door,  a  very  silent 
little  house  behind  its  strip  of  garden.  Joan  had 
the  feeling  that  it  was  listening. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  light  step  in  the  passage, 
and  the  room  door  opened.  A  girl  entered.  She 
was  wearing  a  large  black  hat  and  a  black  boa  round 
her  neck.  Between  them  her  face  shone  unnaturally 
white.  She  carried  a  small  cloth  bag.  She  started, 
on  seeing  Joan,  and  seemed  about  to  retreat. 


160  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  Oh,  please  don't  go,"  cried  Joan.  "  Mrs.  Stop- 
perton  has  just  gone  round  to  the  doctor's.  She 
won't  be  long.  I'm  a  friend  of  hers." 

The  girl  took  stock  of  her  and,  apparently  reas- 
sured, closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  What's  he  like  tonight?  "  she  asked,  with  a  jerk 
of  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  next  room.  She 
placed  her  bag  carefully  upon  the  sofa,  and  examined 
the  new  shawl  as  she  did  so. 

"  Well,  I  gather  he's  a  little  fretful,"  answered 
Joan  with  a  smile. 

"  That's  a  bad  sign,"  said  the  girl.  "  Means  he's 
feeling  better."  She  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  and 
fingered  the  shawl.  "Did  you  give  it  her?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Joan.  "  I  rather  fancied  her 
in  it." 

"  She'll  only  pawn  it,"  said  the  girl,  "  to  buy  him 
grapes  and  port  wine." 

"  I  felt  a  bit  afraid  of  her,"  laughed  Joan,  "  so 
I  made  her  promise  not  to  part  with  it.  Is  he  really 
very  ill,  her  husband?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  there's  no  make-believe  this  time," 
answered  the  girl.  "  A  bad  thing  for  her  if  he 
wasn't. 

"  Oh,  it's  only  what's  known  all  over  the  neigh- 
bourhood," continued  the  girl.  "  She's  had  a  pretty 
rough  time  with  him.  Twice  I've  found  her  getting 
ready  to  go  to  sleep  for  the  night  by  sitting  on  the 
bare  floor  with  her  back  against  the  wall.  Had  sold 
every  stick  in  the  place  and  gone  off.  But  she'd 
always  some  excuse  for  him.  It  was  sure  to  be  half 
her  fault  and  the  other  half  he  couldn't  help.  Now 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  It 

she's  got  her  '  reward  '  according  to  her  own  account. 
Heard  he  was  dying  in  a  doss-house,  and  must  fetch 
him  home  and  nurse  him  back  to  life.  Seems  he's 
getting  fonder  of  her  every  day.  Now  that  he  can't 
do  anything  else." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  depress  her  spirits,"  mused 
Joan. 

"Oh,  she!  She's  all  right,"  agreed  the  girl. 
"Having  the  time  of  her  life:  some  one  to  look 
after  for  twenty-four  hours  a  day  that  can't  help 
themselves." 

She  examined  Joan  awhile  in  silence.  "  Are  you 
on  the  stage?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  answered  Joan.  "  But  my  mother  was. 
Are  you?  " 

"  Thought  you  looked  a  bit  like  it,"  said  the  girl. 
"  I'm  in  the  chorus.  It's  better  than  being  in  service 
or  in  a  shop :  that's  all  you  can  say  for  it." 

"  But  you'll  get  out  of  that,"  suggested  Joan. 
"  You've  got  the  actress  face." 

The  girl  flushed  with  pleasure.  It  was  a  striking 
face,  with  intelligent  eyes  and  a  mobile,  sensitive 
mouth.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  could  act  all  right. 
I  feel  it.  But  you  don't  get  out  of  the  chorus.  Ex- 
cept at  a  price." 

Joan  looked  at  her.  "  I  thought  that  sort  of 
thing  was  dying  out,"  she  said. 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Not  in  my 
shop,"  she  answered.  "  Anyhow,  it  was  the  only 
chance  I  ever  had.  Wish  sometimes  I'd  taken  it. 
It  was  quite  a  good  part." 

"  They  must  have  felt  sure  you  could  act,"  said 
Joan.  "  Next  time  it  will  be  a  clean  offer." 


162  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "  There's  no  next 
time,"  she  said;  "  once  you're  put  down  as  one  of  the 
stand-offs.  Plenty  of  others  to  take  your  place. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  blame  them,"  she  added.  "  It  isn't 
a  thing  to  be  dismissed  with  a  toss  of  your  head.  I 
thought  it  all  out.  Don't  know  now  what  decided 
me.  Something  inside  me,  I  suppose." 

Joan  found  herself  poking  the  fire.  "  Have  you 
known  Mary  Stopperton  long?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Ever  since  I've 
been  on  my  own." 

"  Did  you  talk  it  over  with  her?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl.  "  I  may  have  just  told 
her.  She  isn't  the  sort  that  gives  advice." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  do  it,"  said  Joan:  "  that  you 
put  up  a  fight  for  all  women." 

The  girl  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  Afraid  I  wasn't 
thinking  much  about  that,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Joan.  "  But  perhaps  that's  the  way 
the  best  fights  are  fought , —  without  thinking." 

Mary  peeped  round  the  door.  She  had  been 
lucky  enough  to  find  the  doctor  in.  She  disappeared 
again,  and  they  talked  about  themselves.  The  girl 
was  a  Miss  Ensor.  She  lived  by  herself  in  a  room 
in  Lawrence  Street.  "  I'm  not  good  at  getting  on 
with  people,"  she  explained. 

Mary  joined  them,  and  went  straight  to  Miss 
Ensor's  bag  and  opened  it.  She  shook  her  head  at 
the  contents,  which  consisted  of  a  small,  flabby-look- 
ing meat  pie  in  a  tin  dish,  and  two  pale,  flat  mince 
tarts. 

"  It    doesn't   nourish   you,    dearie,"    complained 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  163 

Mary.  '  You  could  have  bought  yourself  a  nice  bit 
of  meat  with  the  same  money." 

"  And  you  would  have  had  all  the  trouble  of  cook- 
ing it,"  answered  the  girl.  "  That  only  wants 
wanning  up." 

"  But  I  like  cooking,  you  know,  dearie,"  grumbled 
Mary.  "  There's  no  interest  in  warming  things 
up." 

The  girl  laughed.  "  You  don't  have  to  go  far 
for  your  fun,"  she  said.  "  I'll  bring  a  sole  next 
time ;  and  you  shall  do  it  au  gratin." 

Mary  put  the  indigestible-looking  pasties  into  the 
oven,  and  almost  banged  the  door.  Miss  Ensor 
proceeded  to  lay  the  table.  "  How  many,  do  you 
think?"  she  asked.  Mary  was  doubtful.  She 
hoped  that,  it  being  Christmas  Day,  they  would  have 
somewhere  better  to  go. 

"  I  passed  old  '  Bubble  and  Squeak,'  just  now, 
spouting  away  to  three  men  and  a  dog  outside  the 
World's  End.  I  expect  he'll  turn  up,"  thought  Miss 
Ensor.  She  laid  for  four,  leaving  space  for  more 
if  need  be.  "  I  call  it  the  '  Cadger's  Arms,'  "  she 
explained,  turning  to  Joan.  "  We  bring  our  own 
victuals,  and  Mary  cooks  them  for  us  and  waits  on 
us;  and  the  more  of  us  the  merrier.  You  look  for- 
ward to  your  Sunday  evening  parties,  don't  you?  " 
she  asked  of  Mary. 

Mary  laughed.  She  was  busy  in  a  corner  with 
basins  and  a  saucepan.  "  Of  course  I  do,  dearie," 
she  answered.  "  I've  always  been  fond  of  com- 
pany." 

There  came  another  opening  of  the  door.     A  lit- 


164  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

tie  hairy  man  entered.  He  wore  spectacles  and  was 
dressed  in  black.  He  carried  a  paper  parcel  which 
he  laid  upon  the  table.  He  looked  a  little  doubt- 
ful at  Joan.  Mary  introduced  them.  His  name 
was  Julius  Simson.  He  shook  hands  as  if  under 
protest. 

"  As  friends  of  Mary  Stopperton,"  he  said,  "  we 
meet  on  neutral  ground.  But  in  all  matters  of  mo- 
ment I  expect  we  are  as  far  asunder  as  the  poles. 
I  stand  for  the  People." 

"  We  ought  to  be  comrades,"  answered  Joan,  with 
a  smile.  "  I,  too,  am  trying  to  help  the  People." 

"  You  and  your  class,"  said  Mr.  Simson,  "  arc 
friends  enough  to  the  People,  so  long  as  they  remem- 
ber that  they  are  the  People,  and  keep  their  proper 
place  —  at  the  bottom.  I  am  for  putting  the  People 
at  the  top." 

u  Then  they  will  be  the  Upper  Classes,"  suggested 
Joan.  "  And  I  may  still  have  to  go  on  fighting  for 
the  rights  of  the  lower  orders." 

"  In  this  world,"  explained  Mr.  Simson,  "  some 
one  has  got  to  be  Master.  The  only  question  is 
who." 

Mary  had  unwrapped  the  paper  parcel.  It  con- 
tained half  a  sheep's  head.  "  How  would  you  like 
it  done?  "  she  whispered. 

Mr.  Simson  considered.  There  came  a  softer 
look  into  his  eyes.  "  How  did  you  do  it  last  time?  " 
he  asked.  "  It  came  up  brown,  I  remember,  with 
thick  gravy." 

"  Braised,"  suggested  Mary. 

"  That's  the  word,"  agreed  Mr.  Simson. 
"  Braised."  He  watched  while  Mary  took  things 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  165 

needful  from  the  cupboard,  and  commenced  to  peel 
an  onion. 

'  That's  the  sort  that  makes  me  despair  of  the 
People,"  said  Mr.  Simson.  Joan  could  not  be  sure 
whether  he  was  addressing  her  individually  or  imag- 
inary thousands.  "  Likes  working  for  nothing. 
Thinks  she  was  born  to  be  everybody's  servant." 
He  seated  himself  beside  Miss  Ensor  on  the  anti- 
quated sofa.  It  gave  a  complaining  groan  but  held 
out. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  house?"  the  girl  asked 
him.  "  Saw  you  from  the  distance,  waving  your 
arms  about.  Hadn't  time  to  stop." 

"  Not  many,"  admitted  Mr.  Simson.  "  A  Christ- 
massy lot.  You  know.  Sort  of  crowd  that  inter- 
rupts you  and  tries  to  be  funny.  Dead  to  their  own 
interests.  It's  slow  work." 

'  Why  do  you  do  it?  "  asked  Miss  Ensor. 

"  Damned  if  I  know,"  answered  Mr.  Simson,  with 
a  burst  of  candour.  "  Can't  help  it,  I  suppose. 
Lost  me  job  again." 

'The  old  story?"  suggested  Miss  Ensor. 

'  The  old  story,"  sighed  Mr.  Simson.  "  One  of 
the  customers  happened  to  be  passing  last  Wednes- 
day when  I  was  speaking  on  the  Embankment. 
Heard  my  opinion  of  the  middle  classes." 

'  Well,  you  can't  expect  'em  to  like  it,  can  you?  " 
submitted  Miss  Ensor. 

"  No,"  admitted  Mr.  Simson  with  generosity. 
"  It's  only  natural.  It's  a  fight  to  the  finish  between 
me  and  the  Bourgeois.  I  cover  them  with  ridicule 
and  contempt;  and  they  hit  back  at  me  in  the  only 
way  they  know." 


166  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

'  Take  care  they  don't  get  the  best  of  you,"  Miss 
Ensor  advised  him. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  get 
another  place  all  right;  give  me  time.  The  only 
thing  I'm  worried  about  is  my  young  woman." 

"  Doesn't  agree  with  you?  "  inquired  Miss  Ensor. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  he  answered.  "  But  she's 
frightened.  You  know.  Says  life  with  me  is  going 
to  be  a  bit  too  uncertain  for  her.  Perhaps  she's 
right." 

"Oh,  why  don't  you  chuck  it?"  advised  Miss 
Ensor.  "  Give  the  Bourgeois  a  rest." 

Mr.  Simson  shook  his  head.  "  Somebody's  got 
to  tackle  them,"  he  said.  "  Tell  them  the  truth 
about  themselves,  to  their  faces." 

'  Yes,  but  it  needn't  be  you,"  suggested  Miss 
Ensor. 

Mary  was  leaning  over  the  table.  Miss  Ensor's 
four-penny  veal  and  ham  pie  was  ready.  Mary  ar- 
ranged it  in  front  of  her.  "  Eat  it  while  it's  hot, 
dearie,"  she  counselled.  "  It  won't  be  so  indigesti- 
ble." 

Miss  Ensor  turned  to  her.  "  Oh,  you  talk  to 
him,"  she  urged.  "  Here,  he's  lost  his  job  again, 
and  is  losing  his  girl:  all  because  of  his  silly  politics. 
Tell  him  he's  got  to  have  sense  and  stop  it." 

Mary  seemed  troubled.  Evidently,  as  Miss 
Ensor  had  stated,  advice  was  not  her  line.  "  Per- 
haps he's  got  to  do  it,  dearie,"  she  suggested. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  got  to  do  it?  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Ensor.  "  Who's  making  him  do  it,  except 
himself?  " 

Mary  flushed.     She  seemed  to  want  to  get  back 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  167 

to  her  cooking.  "  It's  something  inside  us,  dearie," 
she  thought;  "  that  nobody  hears  but  ourselves." 

"  That  tells  him  to  talk  all  that  twaddle?  "  de- 
manded Miss  Ensor.  "Have  you  heard  him?" 

"  No,  dearie,"  Mary  admitted.  "  But  I  expect 
it's  got  its  purpose.  Or  he  wouldn't  have  to  do  it." 

Miss  Ensor  gave  a  gesture  of  despair  and  applied 
herself  to  her  pie.  The  hirsute  face  of  Mr.  Simson 
had  lost  the  foolish  aggressiveness  that  had  irritated 
Joan.  He  seemed  to  be  pondering  matters. 

Mary  hoped  that  Joan  was  hungry.  Joan 
laughed  and  admitted  that  she  was.  "  It's  the  smell 
of  all  the  nice  things,"  she  explained.  Mary  prom- 
ised it  should  soon  be  ready,  and  went  back  to  her 
corner. 

A  short,  dark,  thick-set  man  entered  and  stood 
looking  round  the  room.  The  frame  must  once 
have  been  powerful,  but  now  it  was  shrunken  and 
emaciated.  The  shabby,  threadbare  clothes  hung 
loosely  from  the  stooping  shoulders.  Only  the  head 
seemed  to  have  retained  its  vigour.  The  face,  from 
which  the  long  black  hair  was  brushed  straight  back, 
was  ghastly  white.  Out  of  it,  deep  set  beneath 
great  shaggy,  overhanging  brows,  blazed  the  fierce, 
restless  eyes  of  a  fanatic.  The  huge,  thin-lipped 
mouth  seemed  to  have  petrified  itself  into  a  savage 
snarl.  He  gave  Joan  the  idea,  as  he  stood  there 
glaring  round  him,  of  a  hunted  beast  at  bay. 

Miss  Ensor,  whose  bump  of  reverence  was  unde- 
veloped, greeted  him  cheerfully  as  Boanerges.  Mr. 
Simson,  more  respectful,  rose  and  offered  his  small, 
grimy  hand.  Mary  took  his  hat  and  cloak  away 
from  him  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  She  felt 


168  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

his  hands,  and  put  him  into  a  chair  close  to  the  fire. 
And  then  she  introduced  him  to  Joan. 

Joan  started  on  hearing  his  name.  It  was  one 
well  known. 

"  The  Cyril  Baptiste?  "  she  asked.  She  had  often 
wondered  what  he  might  be  like. 

"  The  Cyril  Baptiste,"  he  answered,  in  a  low, 
even,  passionate  voice,  that  he  flung  at  her  almost 
like  a  blow.  "  The  atheist,  the  gaol  bird,  the  pariah, 
the  blasphemer,  the  anti-Christ.  I've  hoofs  instead 
of  feet.  Shall  I  take  off  my  boots  and  show  them 
to  you?  I  tuck  my  tail  inside  my  coat.  You  can't 
see  my  horns.  I've  cut  them  off  close  to  my  head. 
That's  why  I  wear  my  hair  long :  to  hide  the  stumps." 

Mary  had  been  searching  in  the  pockets  of  his 
cloak.  She  had  found  a  paper  bag.  "  You  mustn't 
get  excited,"  she  said,  laying  her  little  work-worn 
hand  upon  his  shoulder;  "  or  you'll  bring  on  the 
bleeding." 

"  Ay,"  he  answered,  "  I  must  be  careful  I  don't 
die  on  Christmas  Day.  It  would  make  a  fine  text, 
that,  for  their  sermons." 

He  lapsed  into  silence;  his  almost  transparent 
hands  stretched  out  towards  the  fire. 

Mr.  Simson  fidgeted.  The  quiet  of  the  room, 
broken  only  by  Mary's  ministering  activities,  evi- 
dently oppressed  him. 

"Paper  going  well,  sir?"  he  asked.  "I  often 
read  it  myself." 

"  It  still  sells,"  answered  the  proprietor,  and  edi- 
tor and  publisher,  and  entire  staff  of  The  Rationalist. 

"  I  like  the  articles  you  are  writing  on  the  History 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  169 

of  Superstition.  Quite  illuminating,"  remarked  Mr. 
Simson. 

"  It's  many  a  year,  I  am  afraid,  to  the  final  chap- 
ter," thought  their  author. 

"  They  afford  much  food  for  reflection,"  thought 
Mr.  Simson,  "  though  I  cannot  myself  go  as  far  as 
you  do  in  including  Christianity  under  that  head- 
ing." 

Mary  frowned  at  him;  but  Mr.  Simson,  eager  for 
argument  or  not  noticing,  blundered  on: 

"  Whether  we  accept  the  miraculous  explanation 
of  Christ's  birth,"  continued  Mr.  Simson,  in  his  best 
street-corner  voice,  "  or  whether,  with  the  great 
French  writer  whose  name  for  the  moment  escapes 
me,  we  regard  Him  merely  as  a  man  inspired,  we 
must,  I  think,  admit  that  His  teaching  has  been  of 
help :  especially  to  the  poor." 

The  fanatic  turned  upon  him  so  fiercely  that  Mr. 
Simson's  arm  involuntarily  assumed  the  posture  of 
defence. 

"To  the  poor?"  the  old  man  almost  shrieked. 
"  To  the  poor  that  he  has  robbed  of  all  power  of 
resistance  to  oppression  by  his  vile,  submissive  creed ! 
that  he  has  drugged  into  passive  acceptance  of  every 
evil  done  to  them  by  his  false  promises  that  their 
sufferings  here  shall  win  for  them  some  wonderful 
reward  when  they  are  dead.  What  has  been  his 
teaching  to  the  poor?  Bow  your  backs  to  the  lash, 
kiss  the  rod  that  scars  your  flesh.  Be  ye  humble,  oh, 
my  people.  Be  ye  poor  in  spirit.  Let  Wrong  rule 
triumphant  through  the  world.  Raise  no  hand 
against  it,  lest  ye  suffer  my  eternal  punishment. 


170  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Learn  from  me  to  be  meek  and  lowly.  Learn  to  be 
good  slaves  and  give  no  trouble  to  your  taskmasters. 
Let  them  turn  the  world  into  a  hell  for  you.  The 
grave  —  the  grave  shall  be  your  gate  to  happiness. 

"  Helpful  to  the  poor?  Helpful  to  their  rulers, 
to  their  owners.  They  take  good  care  that  Christ 
shall  be  well  taught.  Their  fat  priests  shall  bear 
His  message  to  the  poor.  The  rod  may  be  broken, 
the  prison  door  be  forced.  It  is  Christ  that  shall 
bind  the  people  in  eternal  fetters.  Christ,  the 
lackey,  the  jackal  of  the  rich." 

Mr.  Simson  was  visibly  shocked.  Evidently  he 
was  less  familiar  with  the  opinions  of  The  Ration- 
alist than  he  had  thought. 

"  I  really  must  protest,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Simson. 
"  To  whatever  wrong  uses  His  words  may  have  been 
twisted,  Christ  Himself  I  regard  as  divine,  and  en- 
titled to  be  spoken  of  with  reverence.  His  whole 
life,  His  sufferings " 

But  the  old  fanatic's  vigour  had  not  yet  exhausted 
itself. 

"  His  sufferings !  "  he  interrupted.  "  Does  suf- 
fering entitle  a  man  to  be  regarded  as  divine?  If 
so,  so  also  am  I  a  God.  Look  at  me ! "  He 
stretched  out  his  long,  thin  arms  with  their  claw- 
like  hands,  thrusting  forward  his  great  savage  head 
that  the  bony,  wizened  throat  seemed  hardly  strong 
enough  to  bear.  ;'  Wealth,  honour,  happiness :  I 
had  them  once.  I  had  wife,  children  and  a  home. 
Now  I  creep  an  outcast,  keeping  to  the  shadows, 
and  the  children  in  the  street  throw  stones  at  me. 
Thirty  years  I  have  starved  that  I  might  preach. 
They  shut  me  in  their  prisons,  they  hound  me  into 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  171 

garrets.  They  jibe  at  me  and  mock  me,  but  they 
cannot  silence  me.  What  of  my  life?  Am  I  di- 
vine?" 

Miss  Ensor,  having  finished  her  supper,  sat  smok- 
ing. 

"Why  must  you  preach?"  she  asked.  "It 
doesn't  seem  to  pay  you."  There  was  a  curious 
smile  about  the  girl's  lips  as  she  caught  Joan's  eye. 

He  turned  to  her  with  his  last  flicker  of  passion. 

"  Because  to  this  end  was  I  born,  and  for  this 
cause  came  I  into  the  world,  that  I  should  bear  wit- 
ness unto  the  truth,"  he  answered. 

He  sank  back  a  huddled  heap  upon  the  chair. 
There  was  foam  about  his  mouth,  great  beads  of 
sweat  upon  his  forehead.  Mary  wiped  them  away 
with  a  corner  of  her  apron,  and  felt  again  his 
trembling  hands.  "  Oh,  please  don't  talk  to  him 
any  more,"  she  pleaded,  "  not  till  he's  had  his  sup- 
per." She  fetched  her  fine  shawl,  and  pinned  it 
round  him.  His  eyes  followed  her  as  she  hovered 
about  him.  For  the  first  time,  since  he  had  entered 
the  room,  they  looked  human. 

They  gathered  round  the  table.  Mr.  Baptiste 
was  still  pinned  up  in  Mary's  bright  shawl.  It  lent 
him  a  curious  dignity.  He  might  have  been  some 
ancient  prophet  stepped  from  the  pages  of  the  Tal- 
mud. Miss  Ensor  completed  her  supper  with  a  cup 
of  tea  and  some  little  cakes :  "  just  to  keep  us  all 
company,"  as  Mary  had  insisted. 

The  old  fanatic's  eyes  passed  from  face  to  face. 
There  was  almost  the  suggestion  of  a  smile  about 
the  savage  mouth. 

"  A  strange  supper-party,"  he  said.     "  Cyril  the 


172  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Apostate;  and  Julius  who  strove  against  the  High 
Priests  and  the  Pharisees;  and  Inez  a  dancer  before 
the  people;  and  Joanna  a  daughter  of  the  rulers, 
gathered  together  in  the  house  of  one  Mary  a 
servant  of  the  Lord." 

"Are  you,  too,  a  Christian?"  he  asked  of  Joan. 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Joan.  "  But  I  hope  to  be, 
one  day."  She  spoke  without  thinking,  not  quite 
knowing  what  she  meant.  But  it  came  back  to  her 
in  after  years. 

The  talk  grew  lighter  under  the  influence  of 
Mary's  cooking.  Mr.  Baptiste  could  be  interesting 
when  he  got  away  from  his  fanaticism;  and  even 
the  apostolic  Mr.  Simson  had  sometimes  noticed 
humour  when  it  had  chanced  his  way. 

A  message  came  for  Mary  about  ten  o'clock, 
brought  by  a  scared  little  girl,  who  whispered  it  to 
her  at  the  door.  Mary  apologized.  She  had  to 
go  out.  The  party  broke  up.  Mary  disappeared 
into  the  next  room  and  returned  in  a  shawl  and  bon- 
net, carrying  a  small  brown  paper  parcel.  Joan 
walked  with  her  as  far  as  the  King's  Road. 

"  A  little  child  is  coming,"  she  confided  to  Joan. 
She  was  quite  excited  about  it. 

Joan  thought.  "  It's  curious,"  she  said,  "  one  so 
seldom  hears  of  anybody  being  born  on  Christmas 
Day." 

They  were  passing  a  lamp.  Joan  had  never  seen 
a  face  look  quite  so  happy  as  Mary's  looked,  just 
then. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  Christ's  birthday,"  she 
said,  "  whenever  a  child  is  born." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  173 

They  had  reached  the  corner.  Joan  could  see  her 
bus  in  the  distance. 

She  stooped  and  kissed  the  little  withered  face. 

"  Don't  stop,"  she  whispered. 

Mary  gave  her  a  hug,  and  almost  ran  away. 
Joan  watched  the  little  child-like  figure  growing 
smaller.  It  glided  in  and  out  among  the  people. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  the  Spring,  Joan,  at  Mrs.  Denton's  request, 
undertook  a  mission.     It  was  to  go  to  Paris. 
Mrs.  Denton  had  meant  to  go  herself,  but  was  laid 
up  with  sciatica;  and  the  matter,   she  considered, 
would  not  brook  of  any  delay. 

"  It's  rather  a  delicate  business,"  she  told  Joan. 
She  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  her  great  library,  and 
Joan  was  seated  by  her  side.  "  I  want  some  one  who 
can  go  into  private  houses  and  mix  with  educated 
people  on  their  own  level;  and  especially  I  want  you 
to  see  one  or  two  women:  they  count  in  France. 
You  know  French  pretty  well,  don't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  sufficiently,"  Joan  answered.  The  one 
thing  her  mother  had  done  for  her  had  been  to  talk 
French  with  her  when  she  was  a  child;  and  at  Girton 
she  had  chummed  on  with  a  French  girl,  and  made 
herself  tolerably  perfect. 

"  You  will  not  go  as  a  journalist,"  continued  Mrs. 
Denton;  "but  as  a  personal  friend  of  mine,  whose 
discretion  I  shall  vouch  for.  I  want  you  to  find  out 
what  the  people  I  am  sending  you  among  are  think- 
ing themselves,  and  what  they  consider  ought  to  be 
done.  If  we  are  not  very  careful  on  both  sides  we 
shall  have  the  newspapers  whipping  us  into  war." 

The  perpetual  Egyptian  trouble  had  cropped  up 
again  and  the  Carleton  papers,  in  particular,  were 
already  sounding  the  tocsin.  Carleton's  argument 
was  that  we  ought  to  fall  upon  France  and  crush 

174 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  175 

her,  before  she  could  develop  her  supposed  sub- 
marine menace.  His  flaming  posters  were  at  every 
corner.  Every  obscure  French  newspaper  was  being 
ransacked  for  "  Insults  and  Pinpricks." 

"  A  section  of  the  Paris  Press  is  doing  all  it  can 
to  help  him,  of  course,"  explained  Mrs.  Denton. 
"  It  doesn't  seem  to  matter  to  them  that  Germany  is 
only  waiting  her  opportunity,  and  that,  if  Russia 
comes  in,  it  is  bound  to  bring  Austria.  Europe 
will  pay  dearly  one  day  for  the  luxury  of  a  free 
Press." 

"  But  you're  surely  not  suggesting  any  other  kind 
of  Press,  at  this  period  of  the  world's  history?" 
exclaimed  Joan. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am,"  answered  the  old  lady  with  a 
grim  tightening  of  the  lips.  "  Not  even  Carleton 
would  be  allowed  to  incite  to  murder  or  arson.  I 
would  have  him  prosecuted  for  inciting  a  nation  to 
war." 

"Why  is  the  Press  always  so  eager  for  war?" 
mused  Joan.  "  According  to  their  own  account, 
war  doesn't  pay  them." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  does:  not  directly,"  answered 
Mrs.  Denton.  "  But  it  helps  them  to  establish  their 
position  and  get  a  tighter  hold  upon  the  public. 
War  does  pay  the  newspaper  in  the  long  run.  The 
daily  newspaper  lives  on  commotion,  crime,  law- 
lessness in  general.  If  people  no  longer  enjoyed 
reading  about  violence  and  bloodshed,  half  their  oc- 
cupation, and  that  the  most  profitable  half,  would  be 
gone.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  newspaper  to  keep 
alive  the  savage  in  human  nature;  and  war  affords 
the  readiest  means  of  doing  this.  You  can't  do 


176  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

much  to  increase  the  number  of  gruesome  murders 
and  loathsome  assaults,  beyond  giving  all  possible 
advertisement  to  them  when  they  do  occur.  But  you 
can  preach  war,  and  cover  yourself  with  glory,  as  a 
patriot,  at  the  same  time." 

"  I  wonder  how  many  of  my  ideals  will  be  left  to 
me,"  sighed  Joan.  "  I  always  used  to  regard  the 
Press  as  the  modern  pulpit." 

"  The  old  pulpit  became  an  evil,  the  moment  it 
obtained  unlimited  power,"  answered  Mrs.  Denton. 
"  It  originated  persecution  and  inflamed  men's  pas- 
sions against  one  another.  It,  too,  preached  war 
for  its  own  ends,  taught  superstition,  and  punished 
thought  as  a  crime.  The  Press  of  today  is  stepping 
into  the  shoes  of  the  mediaeval  priest.  It  aims  at 
establishing  the  worst  kind  of  tyranny:  the  tyranny 
over  men's  minds.  They  pretend  to  fight  among 
themselves,  but  it's  rapidly  becoming  a  close  cor- 
poration. The  Institute  of  Journalists  will  soon  be 
followed  by  the  Union  of  Newspaper  Proprietors 
and  the  few  independent  journals  will  be  squeezed 
out.  Already  we  have  German  shareholders  on 
English  papers;  and  English  capital  is  interested  in 
the  St.  Petersburg  Press.  It  will  one  day  have  its 
International  Pope  and  its  school  of  cosmopolitan 
cardinals." 

Joan  laughed.  "  I  can  see  Carleton  rather  fancy- 
ing himself  in  a  tiara,"  she  said.  "  I  must  tell  Phil- 
lips what  you  say.  He's  out  for  a  fight  with  him. 
Government  by  Parliament  or  Government  by  Press 
is  going  to  be  his  war  cry." 

"  Good  man,"  said  Mrs.  Denton.  "  I'm  quite 
serious.  You  tell  him  from  me  that  the  next  revolu- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  177 

tion  has  got  to  be  against  the  Press.  And  it  will  be 
the  stiffest  fight  Democracy  has  ever  had." 

The  old  lady  had  tired  herself.  Joan  undertook 
the  mission.  She  thought  she  would  rather  enjoy 
it,  and  Mrs.  Denton  promised  to  let  her  have  full 
instructions.  She  would  write  to  her  friends  in 
Paris  and  prepare  them  for  Joan's  coming. 

Joan  remembered  Folk,  the  artist  she  had  met  at 
Flossie's  party,  who  had  promised  to  walk  with  her 
on  the  terrace  at  St.  Germain,  and  tell  her  more 
about  her  mother.  She  looked  up  his  address  on  her 
return  home,  and  wrote  to  him,  giving  him  the  name 
of  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle  where  Mrs. 
Denton  had  arranged  that  she  should  stay.  She 
found  a  note  from  him  awaiting  her  when  she  ar- 
rived there.  He  thought  she  would  like  to  be  quiet 
after  her  journey.  He  would  call  round  in  the 
morning.  He  had  presumed  on  the  privilege  of  age 
to  send  her  some  lilies.  They  had  been  her 
mother's  favourite  flower.  "  Monsieur  Folk,  the 
great  artist,"  had  brought  them  himself,  and  placed 
them  in  her  dressing-room,  so  Madame  informed 
her. 

It  was  one  of  the  half-dozen  old  hotels  still  left 
in  Paris,  and  was  built  round  a  garden  famous  for 
its  mighty  mulberry  tree.  She  breakfasted  under- 
neath it,  and  was  reading  there  when  Folk  appeared 
before  her,  smiling  and  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He 
excused  himself  for  intruding  upon  her  so  soon, 
thinking  from  what  she  had  written  him  that  her 
first  morning  might  be  his  only  chance.  He  evi- 
dently considered  her  remembrance  of  him  a  feather 
in  his  cap. 


178  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

'  We  old  fellows  feel  a  little  sadly,  at  times,  how 
unimportant  we  are,"  he  explained.  "  We  arc 
grateful  when  Youth  throws  us  a  smile." 

'  You  told  me  my  coming  would  take  you  back 
thirty-three  years,"  Joan  reminded  him.  "  It  makes 
us  about  the  same  age.  I  shall  treat  you  as  just  a 
young  man." 

He  laughed.  "  Don't  be  surprised,"  he  said,  "  if 
I  make  a  mistake  occasionally  and  call  you  Lena." 

Joan  had  no  appointment  till  the  afternoon. 
They  drove  out  to  St.  Germain,  and  had  dejeuner 
at  a  small  restaurant  opposite  the  Chateau;  and 
afterwards  they  strolled  on  to  the  terrace. 

"What  was  my  mother  doing  in  Paris?"  asked 
Joan. 

"  She  was  studying  for  the  stage,"  he  answered. 
"  Paris  was  the  only  school  in  those  days.  I  was 
at  Julien's  studio.  We  acted  together  for  some 
charity.  I  had  always  been  fond  of  it.  An  Ameri- 
can manager  who  was  present  offered  us  both  an 
engagement,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  change  and 
that  I  could  combine  the  two  arts." 

"  And  it  was  here  that  you  proposed  to  her,"  said 
Joan. 

"  Just  by  that  tree  that  leans  forward,"  he  an- 
swered, pointing  with  his  cane  a  little  way  ahead. 
"  I  thought  that  in  America  I'd  get  another  chance. 
I  might  have  if  your  father  hadn't  come  along.  I 
wonder  if  he  remembers  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her  again,  after  her  mar- 
riage? "  asked  Joan. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  We  used  to  write  to  one 
another  until  she  gave  it  up.  She  had  got  into  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  179 

habit  of  looking  upon  me  as  a  harmless  sort  of  thing 
to  confide  in  and  ask  advice  of  —  which  she  never 
took. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said.  '  You  must  remember 
that  I  am  still  her  lover."  They  had  reached  the 
tree  that  leant  a  little  forward  beyond  its  fellows, 
and  he  had  halted  and  turned  so  that  he  was  facing 
her.  "  Did  she  and  your  father  get  on  together? 
Was  she  happy?  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  was  happy,"  answered  Joan. 
"  She  was  at  first.  As  a  child,  I  can  remember  her 
singing  and  laughing  about  the  house,  and  she  liked 
always  to  have  people  about  her.  Until  her  illness 
came.  It  changed  her  very  much.  But  my  father 
was  gentleness  itself,  to  the  end." 

They  had  resumed  their  stroll.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  looked  at  her  once  or  twice  a  little  oddly 
without  speaking.  "  What  caused  your  mother's  ill- 
ness? "  he  asked,  abruptly. 

The  question  troubled  her.  It  struck  her  with  a 
pang  of  self-reproach  that  she  had  always  been  indif- 
ferent to  her  mother's  illness,  regarding  it  as  more 
or  less  imaginary.  "  It  was  mental  rather  than 
physical,  I  think,"  she  answered.  "  I  never  knew 
what  brought  it  about." 

Again  he  looked  at  her  with  that  odd,  inquisitive 
expression.  "  She  never  got  over  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  there  were  times,"  answered  Joan,  "  when 
she  was  more  like  her  old  self  again.  But  I  don't 
think  she  ever  quite  got  over  it.  Unless  it  was 
towards  the  end,"  she  added.  "  They  told  me  she 
seemed  much  better  for  a  little  while  before  she  died. 
I  was  away  at  Cambridge  .at  the  time." 


180  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"Poor  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "all  those  years! 
And  poor  Jack  Allway."  He  seemed  to  be  talking 
to  himself.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  her.  "  How  is 
the  dear  fellow?"  he  asked. 

Again  the  question  troubled  her.  She  had  not 
seen  her  father  since  that  week-end,  nearly  six 
months  ago,  when  she  had  run  down  to  see  him  be- 
cause she  wanted  something  from  him.  "  He  felt 
my  mother's  death  very  deeply,"  she  answered. 
"  But  he's  well  enough  in  health." 

"  Remember  me  to  him,"  he  said.  "  And  tell 
him  I  thank  him  for  all  those  years  of  love  and  gen- 
tleness. I  don't  think  he  will  be  offended." 

He  drove  her  back  to  Paris,  and  she  promised  to 
come  and  see  him  in  his  studio  and  let  him  introduce 
her  to  his  artist  friends. 

"  I  shall  try  to  win  you  over,  I  warn  you,"  he 
said.  "  Politics  will  never  reform  the  world. 
They  appeal  only  to  men's  passions  and  hatreds. 
They  divide  us.  It  is  Art  that  is  going  to  civilize 
mankind;  broaden  his  sympathies.  Art  speaks  to 
him  the  common  language  of  his  loves,  his  dreams, 
reveals  to  him  the  universal  kinship." 

Mrs.  Denton's  friends  called  upon  her,  and  most 
of  them  invited  her  to  their  houses.  A  few  were 
politicians,  senators  or  ministers.  Others  were 
bankers,  heads  of  business  houses,  literary  men  and 
women.  There  were  also  a  few  quiet  folk  with 
names  that  were  historical.  They  all  thought  that 
war  between  France  and  England  would  be  a  world 
disaster,  but  were  not  very  hopeful  of  averting  it. 
She  learnt  that  Carleton  was  in  Berlin  trying  to 
secure  possession  of  a  well-known  German  daily  that 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  181 

happened  at  the  moment  to  be  in  low  water.  He 
was  working  for  an  alliance  between  Germany  and 
England.  In  France,  the  Royalists  had  come  to  an 
understanding  with  the  Clericals,  and  both  were  evi- 
dently making  ready  to  throw  in  their  lot  with  the 
war-mongers,  hoping  that  out  of  the  troubled  waters 
the  fish  would  come  their  way.  Of  course  every- 
thing depended  on  the  people.  If  the  people  only 
knew  it !  But  they  didn't.  They  stood  about  in 
puzzled  flocks,  like  sheep,  wondering  which  way  the 
newspaper  dog  was  going  to  hound  them.  They 
took  her  to  the  great  music  halls.  Every  allusion 
to  war  was  greeted  with  rapturous  applause.  The 
Marseillaise  was  demanded  and  encored  till  the 
orchestra  rebelled  from  sheer  exhaustion.  Joan's 
patience  was  sorely  tested.  She  had  to  listen  with 
impassive  face  to  coarse  jests  and  brutal  gibes  di- 
rected against  England  and  everything  English;  to 
sit  unmoved  while  the  vast  audience  rocked  with 
laughter  at  senseless  caricatures  of  supposed  English 
soldiers  whose  knees  always  gave  way  at  the  sight 
of  a  French  uniform.  Even  in  the  eyes  of  her  cour- 
teous hosts,  Joan's  quick  glance  would  occasionally 
detect  a  curious  glint.  The  fools !  Had  they  never 
heard  of  Waterloo  and  Trafalgar?  Even  if  their 
memories  might  be  excused  for  forgetting  Crecy 
and  Poictiers  and  the  campaigns  of  Marlborough. 
One  evening  —  it  had  been  a  particularly  trying  one 
for  Joan  —  there  stepped  upon  the  stage  a  wooden- 
looking  man  in  a  kilt  with  bagpipes  under  his  arm. 
How  he  had  got  himself  into  the  program  Joan 
could  not  understand.  Managerial  watchfulness 
must  have  gone  to  sleep  for  once.  He  played 


182  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Scotch  melodies,  and  the  Parisians  liked  them,  and 
when  he  had  finished  they  called  him  back.  Joan 
and  her  friends  occupied  a  box  close  to  the  stage. 
The  wooden-looking  Scot  glanced  up  at  her,  and 
their  eyes  met.  And  as  the  applause  died  down 
there  rose  the  first  low  warning  strains  of  the  Pib- 
roch. Joan  sat  up  in  her  chair  and  her  lips  parted. 
The  savage  music  quickened.  It  shrilled  and 
skrealed.  The  blood  came  surging  through  her 
veins. 

And  suddenly  something  lying  hidden  there  leaped 
to  life  within  her  brain.  A  mad  desire  surged  hold 
of  her  to  rise  and  shout  defiance  at  those  three  thou- 
sand pairs  of  hostile  eyes  confronting  her.  She 
clutched  at  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  so  kept  her 
seat.  The  Pibroch  ended  with  its  wild  sad  notes  of 
wailing,  and  slowly  the  mist  cleared  from  her  eyes, 
and  the  stage  was  empty.  A  strange  hush  had  fallen 
on  the  house. 

She  was  not  aware  that  her  hostess  had  been 
watching  her.  She  was  a  sweet-faced,  white-haired 
lady.  She  touched  Joan  lightly  on  the  hand. 
"  That's  the  trouble,"  she  whispered.  "  It's  in  our 
blood." 

Could  we  ever  hope  to  eradicate  it?  Was  not 
the  survival  of  this  fighting  instinct  proof  that  war 
was  still  needful  to  us?  In  the  sculpture-room  of  an 
exhibition  she  came  upon  a  painted  statue  of  Bel- 
lona.  Its  grotesqueness  shocked  her  at  first  sight, 
the  red  streaming  hair,  the  wild  eyes  filled  with  fury, 
the  wide  open  mouth  —  one  could  almost  hear  it 
screaming  —  the  white  uplifted  arms  with  out- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  183 

stretched  hands !  Appalling!  Terrible!  And  yet, 
as  she  gazed  at  it,  gradually  the  thing  grew  curiously 
real  to  her.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  gathering  of 
the  chariots,  the  neighing  of  the  horses,  the  hurrying 
of  many  feet,  the  sound  of  an  armouring  multitude, 
the  shouting,  and  the  braying  of  the  trumpets. 

These  cold,  thin-lipped  calculators,  arguing  that 
'War  doesn't  pay";  those  lank-haired  cosmopoli- 
tans, preaching  their  "  International,"  as  if  the  only 
business  of  mankind  were  wages!  War  still  was 
the  stern  school  where  men  learnt  virtue,  duty,  for- 
getfulness  of  self,  faithfulness  unto  death. 

This  particular  war,  of  course,  must  be  stopped: 
if  it  were  not  already  too  late.  It  would  be  a  war 
for  markets;  for  spheres  of  commercial  influence;  a 
sordid  war  that  would  degrade  the  people.  War, 
the  supreme  test  of  a  nation's  worth,  must  be  re- 
served for  great  ideals.  Besides,  she  wanted  to 
down  Carleton. 

One  of  the  women  on  her  list,  and  the  one  to 
whom  Mrs.  Denton  appeared  to  attach  chief  im- 
portance, a  Madame  de  Barante,  disappointed  Joan. 
She  seemed  to  have  so  few  opinions  of  her  own. 
She  had  buried  her  young  husband  during  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war.  He  had  been  a  soldier.  And  she 
had  remained  unmarried.  She  was  still  beautiful. 

"  I  do  not  think  we  women  have  the  right  to  dis- 
cuss war,"  she  confided  to  Joan  in  her  gentle,  high- 
bred voice.  "  I  suppose  you  think  that  out  of  date. 
I  should  have  thought  so  myself  forty  years  ago. 
We  talk  of  '  giving  '  our  sons  and  lovers,  as  if  they 
were  ours  to  give.  It  makes  me  a  little  angry  when 


184  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

I  hear  pampered  women  speak  like  that.  It  is  the 
men  who  have  to  suffer  and  die.  It  is  for  them  to 
decide. 

"  But  perhaps  I  can  arrange  a  meeting  for  you 
with  a  friend,"  she  added,  "  who  will  be  better  able 
to  help  you,  if  he  is  in  Paris.  I  will  let  you  know." 

She  told  Joan  what  she  remembered  herself  of 
1870.  She  had  turned  her  country  house  into  a  hos- 
pital and  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  fighting. 

"  It  would  not  do  to  tell  the  truth,  or  we  should 
have  our  children  growing  up  to  hate  war,"  she  con- 
cluded. 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  sent  Joan  round 
a  message  the  next  morning  to  come  and  see  her  in 
the  afternoon.  Joan  was  introduced  to  a  Monsieur 
de  Chaumont.  He  was  a  soldierly-looking  gentle- 
man, with  a  grey  moustache,  and  a  deep  scar  across 
his  face. 

"  Hanged  if  I  can  see  how  we  are  going  to  get  out 
of  it,"  he  answered  Joan  cheerfully.  "  The  mo- 
ment there  is  any  threat  of  war,  it  becomes  a  point 
of  honour  with  every  nation  to  do  nothing  to  avoid 
it.  I  remember  my  old  duelling  days.  The  quarrel 
may  have  been  about  the  silliest  trifle  imaginable. 
A  single  word  would  have  explained  the  whole  thing 
away.  But  to  utter  it  would  have  stamped  one  as 
a  coward.  This  Egyptian  Tra-la-la!  It  isn't 
worth  the  bones  of  a  single  grenadier,  as  our  friends 
across  the  Rhine  would  say.  But  I  expect,  before 
it's  settled,  there  will  be  men's  bones  sufficient, 
bleaching  on  the  desert,  to  build  another  Pyramid. 
It's  so  easily  started:  that's  the  devil  of  it.  A  mis- 
chievous boy  can  throw  a  lighted  match  into  a  powder 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  185 

magazine,  and  then  it  becomes  every  patriot's  busi- 
ness to  see  that  it  isn't  put  out.  I  hate  war.  It 
accomplishes  nothing,  and  leaves  everything  in  a 
greater  muddle  than  it  was  before.  But  if  the  idea 
ever  catches  fire,  I  shall  have  to  do  all  I  can  to  fan 
the  conflagration.  Unless  I  am  prepared  to  be 
branded  as  a  poltroon.  Every  professional  soldier 
is  supposed  to  welcome  war.  Most  of  us  do:  it's 
our  opportunity.  There's  some  excuse  for  us.  But 
these  men  —  Carleton  and  their  lot:  I  regard  them 
as  nothing  better  than  the  Menades  of  the  Com- 
mune. They  care  nothing  if  the  whole  of  Europe 
blazes.  They  cannot  personally  get  harmed  what- 
ever happens.  It's  fun  to  them." 

"  But  the  people  who  can  get  harmed,"  argued 
Joan.  '  The  men  who  will  be  dragged  away  from 
their  work,  from  their  business,  used  as  '  cannon 
fodder.'  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  they  are  al- 
ways eager  enough  for  it,  at  first,"  he  answered. 
;'  There  is  the  excitement.  The  curiosity.  You 
must  remember  that  life  is  a  monotonous  affair  to 
the  great  mass  of  the  people.  There's  the  natural 
craving  to  escape  from  it ;  to  court  adventure.  They 
are  not  so  enthusiastic  about  it  after  they  have 
tasted  it.  Modern  warfare,  they  soon  find,  is  about 
as  dull  a  business  as  science  ever  invented." 

There  was  only  one  hope  that  he  could  see:  and 
that  was  to  switch  the  people's  mind  on  to  some 
other  excitement.  His  advices  from  London  told 
him  that  a  parliamentary  crisis  was  pending.  Could 
not  Mrs.  Denton  and  her  party  do  something  to 
hasten  it?  He,  on  his  side,  would  consult  with  the 


186  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Socialist  leaders,  who  might  have  something  to  sug- 
gest. 

He  met  Joan,  radiant,  a  morning  or  two  later. 
The  English  Government  had  resigned  and  prepara- 
tions for  a  general  election  were  already  on  foot. 

"  And  God  has  been  good  to  us,  also,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

A  well-known  artist  had  been  found  murdered  in 
his  bed  and  grave  suspicion  attached  to  his  beautiful 
young  wife. 

"  She  deserves  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  if  it  is  proved 
that  she  did  it,"  he  thought.  "  She  will  have  saved 
many  thousands  of  lives  —  for  the  present." 

Folk  had  fixed  up  a  party  at  his  studio  to  meet 
her.  She  had  been  there  once  or  twice;  but  this  was 
a  final  affair.  She  had  finished  her  business  in  Paris 
and  would  be  leaving  the  next  morning.  To  her 
surprise,  she  found  Phillips  there.  He  had  come 
over  hurriedly  to  attend  a  Socialist  conference,  and 
LeBlanc,  the  editor  of  Le  Nouveau  Monde,  had 
brought  him  along. 

"  I  took  Smedley's  place  at  the  last  moment,"  he 
whispered  to  her.  "  I've  never  been  abroad  before. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

It  didn't  strike  her  as  at  all  odd  that  a  leader  of  a 
political  party  should  ask  her  "  if  she  minded  "  his 
being  in  Paris  to  attend  a  political  conference.  He 
was  wearing  a  light  grey  suit  and  a  blue  tie.  There 
was  nothing  about  him,  at  that  moment,  suggesting 
that  he  was  a  leader  of  any  sort.  He  might  have 
been  just  any  man,  but  for  his  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  whispered.  "  Of  course  not.  I  don't 
like  your  tie."  It  seemed  to  depress  him,  that. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  187 

She  felt  elated  at  the  thought  that  he  would  see 
her  for  the  first  time  amid  surroundings  where  she 
would  shine.  Folk  came  forward  to  meet  her  with 
that  charming  air  of  protective  deference  that  he  had 
adopted  towards  her.  He  might  have  been  some 
favoured  minister  of  state  kissing  the  hand  of  a 
youthful  Queen.  She  glanced  down  the  long  studio, 
ending  in  its  fine  window  overlooking  the  park. 
Some  of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  Paris  were 
there,  and  the  immediate  stir  of  admiration  that  her 
entrance  had  created  was  unmistakable.  Even  the 
women  turned  pleased  glances  at  her;  as  if  willing 
to  recognize  in  her  their  representative.  A  sense  of 
power  came  to  her  that  made  her  feel  kind  to  all  the 
world.  There  was  no  need  for  her  to  be  clever;  to 
make  any  effort  to  attract.  Her  presence,  her  sym- 
pathy, her  approval  seemed  to  be  all  that  was 
needed  of  her.  She  had  the  consciousness  that  by  the 
mere  exercise  of  her  will  she  could  sway  the  thoughts 
and  actions  of  these  men:  that  sovereignty  had  been 
given  to  her.  It  reflected  itself  in  her  slightly 
heightened  colour,  in  the  increased  brilliance  of  her 
eyes,  in  the  confident  ease  of  all  her  movements. 
It  added  a  compelling  softness  to  her  voice. 

She  never  quite  remembered  what  the  talk  was 
about.  Men  were  brought  up  and  presented  to  her, 
and  hung  about  her  words,  and  sought  to  please  her. 
She  had  spoken  her  own  thoughts,  indifferent 
whether  they  expressed  agreement  or  not;  and  the 
argument  had  invariably  taken  another  plane.  It 
seemed  so  important  that  she  should  be  convinced. 
Some  had  succeeded,  and  had  been  strengthened. 
Others  had  failed,  and  had  departed  sorrowful,  con- 


188  All  Eoads  Lead  to  Calvary 

scious  of  the  necessity  of  "  thinking  it  out  again." 

Guests  with  other  engagements  were  taking  their 
leave.  A  piquant  little  woman,  outrageously  but 
effectively  dressed  —  she  looked  like  a  drawing  by 
Beardsley  —  drew  her  aside.  "  I've  always  wished 
I  were  a  man,"  she  said.  "  It  seemed  to  me  that 
they  had  all  the  power.  From  this  afternoon,  I 
shall  be  proud  of  belonging  to  the  governing  sex." 

She  laughed  and  slipped  away. 

Phillips  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  vestibule.  She 
had  forgotten  him;  but  now  she  felt  glad  of  his  hum- 
ble request  to  be  allowed  to  see  her  home.  It  would 
have  been  such  a  big  drop  from  her  crowded  hour  of 
triumph  to  the  long,  lonely  cab  ride  and  the  solitude 
of  the  hotel.  She  resolved  to  be  gracious,  feeling 
a  little  sorry  for  her  neglect  of  him;  but  reflecting 
with  satisfaction  that  he  had  probably  been  watching 
her  the  whole  time. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  tie?"  he  asked. 
"Wrong  colour?" 

She  laughed.  "  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  It  ought 
to  be  grey  to  match  your  suit.  And  so  ought  your 
socks." 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  going  to  be  such  a  swell 
affair,  or  I  shouldn't  have  come,"  he  said. 

She  touched  his  hand  lightly. 

"  I  want  you  to  get  used  to  it,"  she  said.  "  It's 
part  of  your  work.  Put  your  brain  into  it,  and  don't 
be  afraid." 

"  I'll  try,"  he  said. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  front  seat,  facing  her. 
"  I'm  glad  I  went,"  he  said  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"  I  loved  watching  you,  moving  about  among  all 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  189 

those  people.  I  never  knew  before  how  beautiful 
you  are." 

Something  in  his  eyes  sent  a  slight  thrill  of  fear 
through  her.  It  was  not  an  unpleasant  sensation  — 
rather  exhilarating.  She  watched  the  passing  street 
till  she  felt  that  his  eyes  were  no  longer  devouring 
her. 

"You're  not  offended?"  he  asked.  "At  my 
thinking  you  beautiful?"  he  added,  in  case  she 
hadn't  understood. 

She  laughed.  Her  confidence  had  returned  to 
her.  "  It  doesn't  generally  offend  a  woman,"  she 
answered. 

He  seemed  relieved.  "  That's  what's  so  wonder- 
ful about  you,"  he  said.  "  I've  met  plenty  of  clever, 
brilliant  women,  but  one  could  forget  that  they  were 
women.  You're  everything." 

He  pleaded,  standing  below  her  on  the  steps  of 
the  hotel,  that  she  would  dine  with  him.  But  she 
shook  her  head.  She  had  her  packing  to  do.  She 
could  have  managed  it;  but  something  prudent  and 
absurd  had  suddenly  got  hold  of  her;  and  he  went 
away  with  much  the  same  look  in  his  eyes  that  comes 
to  a  dog  when  he  finds  that  his  master  cannot  be  per- 
suaded into  an  excursion. 

She  went  up  to  her  room.  There  really  was  not 
much  to  do.  She  could  quite  well  finish  her  packing 
in  the  morning.  She  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  set 
to  work  to  arrange  her  papers.  It  was  a  warm 
spring  evening,  and  the  window  was  open.  A  crowd 
of  noisy  sparrows  seemed  to  be  delighted  about 
something.  From  somewhere,  unseen,  a  blackbird 
was  singing.  She  read  over  her  report  for  Mrs. 


190  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Denton.  The  blackbird  seemed  never  to  have  heard 
of  war.  He  sang  as  if  the  whole  world  were  a 
garden  of  languor  and  love.  Joan  looked  at  her 
watch.  The  first  gong  would  sound  in  a  few  min- 
utes. She  pictured  the  dreary,  silent  dining-room 
with  its  few  scattered  occupants,  and  her  heart  sank 
at  the  prospect.  To  her  relief  came  remembrance 
of  a  cheerful  but  entirely  respectable  restaurant  near 
to  the  Louvre  to  which  she  had  been  taken  a  few 
nights  before.  She  had  noticed  quite  a  number  of 
women  dining  there  alone.  She  closed  her  dispatch 
case  with  a  snap  and  gave  a  glance  at  herself  in  the 
great  mirror.  The  blackbird  was  still  singing. 

She  walked  up  the  Rue  des  Sts.  Peres,  enjoying 
the  delicious  air.  Half  way  across  the  bridge  she 
overtook  a  man,  strolling  listlessly  in  front  of  her. 
There  was  something  familiar  about  him.  He  was 
wearing  a  grey  suit  and  had  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
Suddenly  the  truth  flashed  upon  her.  She  stopped. 
If  he  strolled  on,  she  would  be  able  to  slip  back.  In- 
stead of  which  he  abruptly  turned  to  look  down  at 
a  passing  steamer,  and  they  were  face  to  face. 

It  made  her  mad,  the  look  of  delight  that  came 
into  his  eyes.  She  could  have  boxed  his  ears. 
Hadn't  he  anything  else  to  do  but  hang  about  the 
streets? 

He  explained  that  he  had  been  listening  to  the 
band  in  the  gardens,  returning  by  the  Quai  d'Orsay. 

"  Do  let  me  come  with  you,"  he  said.  ;<  I  kept 
myself  free  this  evening,  hoping.  And  I'm  feeling 
so  lonesome." 

Poor  fellow!  She  had  come  to  understand  that 
feeling.  After  all,  it  wasn't  altogether  his  fault 


All  Eoads  Lead  to  Calvary  191 

that  they  had  met.  And  she  had  been  so  cross  to 
him! 

He  was  reading  every  expression  on  her  face. 

"  It's  such  a  lovely  evening,"  he  said.  "  Couldn't 
we  go  somewhere  and  dine  under  a  tree?  " 

It  would  be  rather  pleasant.  There  was  a  little 
place  at  Meudon,  she  remembered.  The  plane  trees 
would  just  be  in  full  leaf. 

A  passing  cab  had  drawn  up  close  to  them.  The 
chauffeur  was  lighting  his  pipe. 

Even  Mrs.  Grundy  herself  couldn't  object  to  a 
journalist  dining  with  a  politician! 

The  stars  came  out  before  they  had  ended  dinner. 
She  had  made  him  talk  about  himself.  It  was  mar- 
vellous what  he  had  accomplished  with  his  oppor- 
tunities. Ten  hours  a  day  in  the  mines  had  earned 
for  him  his  living,  and  the  night  had  given  him  his 
leisure.  An  attic,  lighted  by  a  tallow  candle,  with  a 
shelf  of  books  that  left  him  hardly  enough  for  bread, 
had  been  his  Alma  Mater.  History  was  his  chief 
study.  There  was  hardly  an  authority  Joan  could 
think  of  with  which  he  was  not  familiar.  Julius 
Ctesar  was  his  favourite  play.  He  seemed  to  know 
it  by  heart.  At  twenty-three  he  had  been  elected  a 
delegate,  and  had  entered  Parliament  at  twenty- 
eight.  It  had  been  a  life  of  hardship,  of  privation, 
of  constant  strain;  but  she  found  herself  unable  to 
pity  him.  It  was  a  tale  of  strength,  of  struggle,  of 
victory,  that  he  told  her. 

Strength!  The  shaded  lamplight  fell  upon  his 
fearless  kindly  face  with  its  flashing  eyes  and  its 
humorous  mouth.  He  ought  to  have  been  drinking 
out  of  a  horn,  not  a  wine  glass  that  his  well-shaped 


192  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

hand  could  have  crushed  by  a  careless  pressure.  In 
a  winged  helmet  and  a  coat  of  mail  he  would  have 
looked  so  much  more  fitly  dressed  than  in  that  soft 
felt  hat  and  ridiculous  blue  tie. 

She  led  him  to  talk  on  about  the  future.  She 
loved  to  hear  his  clear,  confident  voice  with  its  touch 
of  boyish  boastfulness.  What  was  there  to  stop 
him?  Why  should  he  not  climb  from  power  to 
power  till  he  had  reached  the  end ! 

And  as  he  talked  and  dreamed  there  grew  up  in 
her  heart  a  fierce  anger.  What  would  her  own 
future  be?  She  would  marry  probably  some  man  of 
her  own  class,  settle  down  to  the  average  woman's 
"  life  " ;  be  allowed,  like  a  spoilt  child,  to  still  "  take 
an  interest  "  in  public  affairs :  hold  "  drawing-rooms  " 
attended  by  cranks  and  political  nonentities  :  be  Presi- 
dent, perhaps,  of  the  local  Woman's  Liberal  League. 
The  alternative:  to  spend  her  days  glued  to  a  desk, 
penning  exhortations  to  the  people  that  Carleton 
and  his  like  might  or  might  not  allow  them  to  read; 
while  youth  and  beauty  slipped  away  from  her,  leav- 
ing her  one  of  the  ten  thousand  other  lonely,  faded 
women,  forcing  themselves  unwelcome  into  men's 
jobs.  There  came  to  her  a  sense  of  having  been 
robbed  of  what  was  hers  by  primitive  eternal  law. 
Greyson  had  been  right.  She  did  love  power  — 
power  to  serve  and  shape  the  world.  She  would 
have  earned  it  and  used  it  well.  She  could  have 
helped  him,  inspired  him.  They  would  have  worked 
together:  he  the  force  and  she  the  guidance.  She 
would  have  supplied  the  things  he  lacked.  It  was 
to  her  he  came  for  counsel,  as  it  was.  But  for  her 
he  would  never  have  taken  the  first  step.  What 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  193 

right  had  this  poor  brainless  lump  of  painted  flesh 
to  share  his  wounds,  his  triumphs?  What  help 
could  she  give  him  when  the  time  should  come  that 
he  should  need  it? 

Suddenly  he  broke  off.  "  What  a  fool  I'm  mak- 
ing of  myself,"  he  said.  "  I  always  was  a  dreamer." 

She  forced  a  laugh.  "  Why  shouldn't  it  come 
true?  "  she  asked. 

They  had  the  little  garden  to  themselves.  The 
million  lights  of  Paris  shone  below  them. 

"  Because  you  won't  be  there,"  he  answered,  "  and 
without  you  I  can't  do  it.  You  think  I'm  always 
like  I  am  tonight,  bragging,  confident.  So  I  am 
when  you  are  with  me.  You  give  me  back  my 
strength.  The  plans  and  hopes  and  dreams  that 
were  slipping  from  me  come  crowding  round  me, 
laughing  and  holding  out  their  hands.  They  are 
like  the  children.  They  need  two  to  care  for  them. 
I  want  to  talk  about  them  to  some  one  who  under- 
stands them  and  loves  them,  as  I  do.  I  want  to 
feel  they  are  dear  to  some  one  else,  as  well  as  to 
myself:  that  I  must  work  for  them  for  her  sake,  as 
well  as  for  my  own.  I  want  some  one  to  help  me  to 
bring  them  up." 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  brushed  them 
angrily  away.  "  Oh,  I  know  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  myself,"  he  said.  "  It  wasn't  her  fault.  She 
wasn't  to  know  that  a  hot-blooded  young  chap  of 
twenty  hasn't  all  his  wits  about  him,  any  more  than 
I  was.  If  I  had  never  met  you,  it  wouldn't  have 
mattered.  I'd  have  done  my  bit  of  good,  and  have 
stopped  there,  content.  With  you  beside  me  "  — 
he  looked  away  from  her  to  where  the  silent  city 


194  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

peeped  through  its  veil  of  night  —  "I  might  have 
left  the  world  better  than  I  found  it." 

The  blood  had  mounted  to  her  face.  She  drew 
back  into  the  shadow,  beyond  the  tiny  sphere  of 
light  made  by  the  little  lamp. 

"  Men  have  accomplished  great  things  without  a 
woman's  help,"  she  said. 

"  Some  men,"  he  answered.  "  Artists  and  poets. 
They  have  the  woman  within  them.  Men  like  my- 
self—  the  mere  fighter:  we  are  incomplete  in  our- 
selves. Male  and  female  created  He  them.  We 
are  lost  without  our  mate." 

He  was  thinking  only  of  himself.  Had  he  no 
pity  for  her.  So  was  she,  also,  useless  without  her 
mate.  Neither  was  she  of  those,  here  and  there, 
who  can  stand  alone.  Her  task  was  that  of  the 
eternal  woman:  to  make  a  home:  to  cleanse  the 
world  of  sin  and  sorrow,  make  it  a  kinder  dwelling- 
place  for  the  children  that  should  come.  This  man 
was  her  true  helpmeet.  He  would  have  been  her 
weapon,  her  dear  servant;  and  she  could  have  re- 
warded him  as  none  other  ever  could.  The  lamp- 
light fell  upon  his  ruddy  face,  his  strong  white  hands 
resting  on  the  flimsy  table.  He  belonged  to  an  older 
order  than  her  own.  That  suggestion  about  him  of 
something  primitive,  of  something  not  yet  altogether 
tamed.  She  felt  again  that  slight  thrill  of  fear  that 
so  strangely  excited  her.  A  mist  seemed  to  be  ob- 
scuring all  things.  He  seemed  to  be  coming  towards 
her.  Only  by  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  move- 
less hands,  still  resting  on  the  table,  could  she  con- 
vince herself  that  his  arms  were  not  closing  about 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  195 

her,  that  she  was  not  being  drawn  nearer  and  nearer 
to  him,  powerless  to  resist. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  mist,  she  heard  voices.  The 
waiter  was  standing  beside  him  with  the  bill.  She 
reached  out  her  hand  and  took  it.  The  usual  few 
mistakes  had  occurred.  She  explained  them,  good 
temperedly,  and  the  waiter,  with  profuse  apologies, 
went  back  to  have  it  corrected. 

He  turned  to  her  as  the  man  went.  '  Try  and 
forgive  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  all  came 
tumbling  out  before  I  thought  what  I  was  saying." 

The  blood  was  flowing  back  into  her  veins.  "  Oh, 
it  wasn't  your  fault,"  she  answered.  '  We  must 
make  the  best  we  can  of  it." 

He  bent  forward  so  that  he  could  see  into  her 
eyes. 

'  Tell  me,"  he  said.  There  was  a  note  of  fierce 
exultation  in  his  voice.  "  I'll  promise  never  to  speak 
of  it  again.  If  I  had  been  a  free  man,  could  I  have 
won  you  ?  " 

She  had  risen  while  he  was  speaking.  She  moved 
to  him  and  laid  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"  Will  you  serve  me  and  fight  for  me  against  all 
my  enemies  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  So  long  as  I  live,"  he  answered. 

She  glanced  round.  There  was  no  sign  of  the 
returning  waiter.  She  bent  over  him  and  kissed 
him. 

"  Don't  come  with  me,"  she  said.  "  There's  a 
cab  stand  in  the  Avenue.  I  shall  walk  to  Sevres  and 
take  the  train." 

She  did  not  look  back, 


CHAPTER  XII 

SHE  reached  home  in  the  evening.  The  Phil- 
lips's  old  rooms  had  been  twice  let  since  Christ- 
mas, but  were  now  again  empty.  The  McKean 
with  his  silent  ways  and  his  everlasting  pipe  had 
gone  to  America  to  superintend  the  production  of 
one  of  his  plays.  The  house  gave  her  the  feeling 
of  being  haunted.  She  had  her  dinner  brought  up 
to  her  and  prepared  for  a  long  evening's  work;  but 
found  herself  unable  to  think  —  except  on  the  one 
subject  that  she  wanted  to  put  off  thinking  about. 
To  her  relief  the  last  post  brought  her  a  letter  from 
Arthur.  He  had  been  called  to  Lisbon  to  look  after 
a  contract,  and  would  be  away  for  a  fortnight.  Her 
father  was  not  as  well  as  he  had  been. 

It  seemed  to  just  fit  in.  She  would  run  down  and 
spend  a  few  quiet  days  at  Liverpool.  In  her  old 
familiar  room  where  the  moon  peeped  in  over  the 
tops  of  the  tall  pines  she  would  be  able  to  reason 
things  out.  Perhaps  her  father  would  be  able  to 
help  her.  She  had  lost  her  childish  conception  of 
him  as  of  some  one  prim  and  proper,  with  cut  and 
dried  formulas  for  all  occasions.  That  glimpse  he 
had  shown  her  of  himself  had  established  a  fellow- 
ship between  them.  He,  too,  had  wrestled  with 
life's  riddles,  not  sure  of  his  own  answers.  She 
found  him  suffering  from  his  old  heart  trouble,  but 
more  cheerful  than  she  had  known  him  for  years. 

196 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  197 

Arthur  seemed  to  be  doing  wonders  with  the  men. 
They  were  coming  to  trust  him. 

'  The  difficulty  I  have  always  been  up  against," 
explained  her  father,  "  has  been  their  suspicion. 
'  What's  the  cunning  old  rascal  up  to  now?  What's 
his  little  game?  '  That  is  always  what  I  have  felt 
they  were  thinking  to  themselves  whenever  I  have 
wanted  to  do  anything  for  them.  It  isn't  anything 
he  says  to  them.  It  seems  to  be  just  he,  himself." 

He  sketched  out  their  plans  to  her.  It  seemed  to 
be  all  going  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other. 
What  was  the  matter  with  her?  Perhaps  she  was 
tired  without  knowing  it.  She  would  get  him  to  tell 
her  all  about  it  tomorrow.  Also,  tomorrow,  she 
would  tell  him  all  about  Phillips,  and  ask  his  advice. 
It  was  really  quite  late.  If  he  talked  any  more 
now,  it  would  give  her  a  headache.  She  felt  it 
coming  on. 

She  made  her  "  good-night "  extra  affectionate, 
hoping  to  disguise  her  impatience.  She  wanted  to 
get  up  to  her  own  room. 

But  even  that  did  not  help  her.  It  seemed  in 
some  mysterious  way  to  be  no  longer  her  room,  but 
the  room  of  some  one  she  had  known  and  half  for- 
gotten :  who  would  never  come  back.  It  gave  her 
the  same  feeling  she  had  experienced  on  returning 
to  the  house  in  London:  that  the  place  was  haunted. 
The  high  cheval  glass  from  her  mother's  dressing- 
room  had  been  brought  there  for  her  use.  The  pic- 
ture of  an  absurdly  small  child  —  the  child  to  whom 
this  room  had  once  belonged  —  standing  before  it 
naked,  rose  before  her  eyes.  She  had  wanted  to  see 
herself.  She  had  thought  that  only  her  clothes 


198  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

stood  in  the  way.  If  we  could  but  see  ourselves,  as 
in  some  magic  mirror.  All  the  garments  usage  and 
education  has  dressed  us  up  in  laid  aside.  What 
was  she  underneath  her  artificial  niceties,  her 
prim  moralities,  her  laboriously  acquired  restraints, 
her  unconscious  pretences  and  hypocrisies?  She 
changed  her  clothes  for  a  loose  robe,  and  putting 
out  the  light  drew  back  the  curtains.  The  moon 
peeped  in  over  the  top  of  the  tall  pines,  but  it  only 
stared  at  her,  indifferent.  It  seemed  to  be  looking 
for  somebody  else. 

Suddenly,  and  intensely  to  her  own  surprise,  she 
fell  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  There  was 
no  reason  for  it,  and  it  was  altogether  so  unlike  her. 
But  for  quite  a  while  she  was  unable  to  control  it. 
Gradually,  and  of  their  own  accord,  her  sobs  les- 
sened, and  she  was  able  to  wipe  her  eyes  and  take 
stock  of  herself  in  the  long  glass.  She  wondered 
for  the  moment  whether  it  was  really  her  own  re- 
flection that  she  saw  there  or  that  of  some  ghostly 
image  of  her  mother.  She  had  so  often  seen  the 
same  look  in  her  mother's  eyes.  Evidently  the  like- 
ness between  them  was  more  extensive  than  she  had 
imagined.  For  the  first  time  she  became  conscious 
of  an  emotional,  hysterical  side  to  her  nature  of 
which  she  had  been  unaware.  Perhaps  it  was  just 
as  well  that  she  had  discovered  it.  She  would  have 
to  keep  a  stricter  watch  upon  herself.  This  ques- 
tion of  her  future  relationship  with  Phillips :  it  would 
have  to  be  thought  out  coldly,  dispassionately. 
Nothing  unexpected  must  be  allowed  to  enter  into  it. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  fell  asleep.     The 
big  glass  faced  her  as  she  lay  in  bed.     She  could 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  199 

not  get  away  from  the  idea  that  it  was  her  mother's 
face  that  every  now  and  then  she  saw  reflected  there. 

She  woke  late  the  next  morning.  Her  father  had 
already  left  for  the  works.  She  was  rather  glad  to 
have  no  need  of  talking.  She  would  take  a  long 
walk  into  the  country,  and  face  the  thing  squarely 
with  the  help  of  the  cheerful  sun  and  the  free  west 
wind  that  was  blowing  from  the  sea.  She  took  the 
train  up  north  and  struck  across  the  hills.  Her  spir- 
its rose  as  she  walked. 

It  was  only  the  intellectual  part  of  him  she  wanted 
—  the  spirit,  not  the  man.  She  would  be  taking 
nothing  away  from  the  woman,  nothing  that  had 
ever  belonged  to  her.  All  the  rest  of  him:  his 
home  life,  the  benefits  that  would  come  to  her  from 
his  improved  means,  from  his  social  position:  all 
that  the  woman  had  ever  known  or  cared  for  in  him 
would  still  be  hers.  He  would  still  remain  to  her 
the  kind  husband  and  father.  What  more  was  the 
woman  capable  of  understanding?  What  more  had 
she  any  right  to  demand? 

It  was  not  of  herself  she  was  thinking.  It  was 
for  his  work's  sake  that  she  wanted  to  be  near  to  him 
always:  that  she  might  counsel  him,  encourage  him. 
For  this  she  was  prepared  to  sacrifice  herself,  give 
up  her  woman's  claim  on  life.  They  would  be 
friends,  comrades  —  nothing  more.  That  little 
lurking  curiosity  of  hers,  concerning  what  it  would 
be  like  to  feel  his  strong  arms  round  her,  pressing 
her  closer  and  closer  to  him:  it  was  only  a  foolish 
fancy.  She  could  easily  laugh  that  out  of  herself. 
Only  bad  women  had  need  to  be  afraid  of  them- 
selves. She  would  keep  guard  for  both  of  them. 


200  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Their  purity  of  motive,  their  high  purpose,  would 
save  them  from  the  danger  of  anything  vulgar  or 
ridiculous. 

Of  course  they  would  have  to  be  careful.  There 
must  be  no  breath  of  gossip,  no  food  for  evil  tongues. 
About  that  she  was  determined  even  more  for  his 
sake  than  her  own.  It  would  be  fatal  to  his  career. 
She  was  quite  in  agreement  with  the  popular  de- 
mand, supposed  to  be  peculiarly  English,  that  a  pub- 
lic man's  life  should  be  above  reproach.  Of  what 
use  these  prophets  without  self-control;  these  social 
reformers  who  could  not  shake  the  ape  out  of  them- 
selves? Only  the  brave  could  give  courage  to 
others.  Only  through  the  pure  could  God's  light 
shine  upon  men. 

It  was  vexing  his  having  moved  round  the  corner, 
into  North  Street.  Why  couldn't  the  silly  woman 
have  been  content  where  she  was  ?  Living  under  one 
roof,  they  could  have  seen  one  another  as  often  as 
was  needful  without  attracting  attention.  Now,  she 
supposed,  she  would  have  to  be  more  than  ever  the 
bosom  friend  of  Mrs.  Phillips  —  spend  hours  amid 
that  hideous  furniture,  surrounded  by  those  bilious 
wallpapers.  Of  course  he  could  not  come  to  her. 
She  hoped  he  would  appreciate  the  sacrifice  she 
would  be  making  for  him.  Fortunately  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips would  give  no  trouble.  She  would  not  even 
understand. 

What  about  Hilda?  No  hope  of  hiding  their 
secret  from  those  sharp  eyes.  But  Hilda  would  ap- 
prove. They  could  trust  Hilda.  The  child  might 
prove  helpful. 

It  cast  a  passing  shadow  upon  her  spirits,  this 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  201 

necessary  descent  into  details.  It  brought  with  it 
the  suggestion  of  intrigue,  of  deceit:  robbing  the 
thing,  to  a  certain  extent,  of  its  fineness.  Still,  what 
was  to  be  done?  If  women  were  coming  into  public 
life  these  sort  of  relationships  with  men  would  have 
to  be  faced  and  worked  out.  Sex  must  no  longer 
be  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  working  together  of 
men  and  women  for  common  ends.  It  was  that 
had  kept  the  world  back.  They  would  be  the  pion- 
eers of  the  new  order.  Casting  aside  their  earthly 
passions,  humbly  with  pure  hearts  they  would  kneel 
before  God's  altar.  He  should  bless  their  union. 

A  lark  was  singing.  She  stood  listening. 
Higher  and  higher  he  rose,  pouring  out  his  song  of 
worship;  till  the  tiny,  fragile  body  disappeared  as  if 
fallen  from  him,  leaving  his  sweet  soul  still  singing. 
The  happy  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and  she  passed 
on.  She  did  not  hear  that  little  last  faint  sob  with 
which  he  sank  exhausted  back  to  earth  beside  a  hid- 
den nest  among  the  furrows. 

She  had  forgotten  the  time.  It  was  already  late 
afternoon.  Her  long  walk  and  the  keen  air  had 
made  her  hungry.  She  had  a  couple  of  eggs  with 
her  tea  at  a  village  inn,  and  was  fortunate  enough 
to  catch  a  train  that  brought  her  back  in  time  for 
dinner.  A  little  ashamed  of  her  unresponsiveness 
the  night  before,  she  laid  herself  out  to  be  sympa- 
thetic to  her  father's  talk.  She  insisted  on  hearing 
again  all  that  he  and  Arthur  were  doing,  opposing 
him  here  and  there  with  criticism  just  sufficient  to 
stimulate  him;  careful  in  the  end  to  let  him  convince 
her. 

These  small  hypocrisies  were  new  to  her.     She 


202  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

hoped  she  was  not  damaging  her  character.  But  it 
was  good,  watching  him  slyly  from  under  drawn- 
down  lids,  to  see  the  flash  of  triumph  that  would 
come  into  his  tired  eyes  in  answer  to  her  half-pro- 
testing: 'Yes,  I  see  your  point,  I  hadn't  thought 
of  that,"  her  half  reluctant  admission  that  "  per- 
haps "  he  was  right,  there;  that  "  perhaps  "  she  was 
wrong.  It  was  delightful  to  see  him  young  again, 
eager,  boyishly  pleased  with  himself.  It  seemed 
there  was  a  joy  she  had  not  dreamed  of  in  yielding 
victory  as  well  as  in  gaining  it.  A  new  tenderness 
was  growing  up  in  her.  How  considerate,  how 
patient,  how  self-forgetful  he  had  always  been.  She 
wanted  to  mother  him.  To  take  him  in  her  arms 
and  croon  over  him,  hushing  away  remembrance  of 
the  old  sad  days. 

Folk's  words  came  back  to  her  "  And  poor  Jack 
Allway.  Tell  him  I  thank  him  for  all  those  years 
of  love  and  gentleness."  She  gave  him  the  mes- 
sage. 

Folk  had  been  right.  He  was  not  offended. 
"  Dear  old  chap,"  he  said.  "  That  was  kind  of 
him.  He  was  always  generous." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while,  with  a  quiet  look  on  his 
face. 

"  Give  him  our  love,"  he  said.  "  Tell  him  we 
came  together,  at  the  end." 

It  was  on  her  tongue  to  ask  him,  as  so  often  she 
had  meant  to  do  of  late,  what  had  been  the  cause 
of  her  mother's  illness  —  if  illness  it  was:  what  it 
was  that  had  happened  to  change  both  their  lives. 
But  always  something  had  stopped  her  —  something 
ever  present,  ever  watchful,  that  seemed  to  shape 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  203 

itself  out  of  the  air,  bending  towards  her  with  its 
finger  on  its  lips. 

She  stayed  over  the  week-end;  and  on  the  Satur- 
day, at  her  suggestion,  they  took  a  long  excursion 
into  the  country.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
asked  him  to  take  her  out.  He  came  down  to 
breakfast  in  a  new  suit,  and  was  quite  excited.  In 
the  car  his  hand  had  sought  hers  shyly,  and,  feeling 
her  responsive  pressure,  he  had  continued  to  hold 
it;  and  they  had  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence.  She 
decided  not  to  tell  him  about  Phillips,  just  yet.  He 
knew  of  him  only  from  the  Tory  newspapers  and 
would  form  a  wrong  idea.  She  would  bring  them 
together  and  leave  Phillips  to  make  his  own  way. 
He  would  like  Phillips  when  he  knew  him,  she  felt 
sure.  He,  too,  was  a  people's  man.  The  torch 
passed  down  to  him  from  his  old  Ironside  ancestors, 
it  still  glowed.  More  than  once  she  had  seen  it 
leap  to  flame.  In  congenial  atmosphere,  it  would 
burn  clear  and  steadfast.  It  occurred  to  her  what 
a  delightful  solution  of  her  problem,  if  later  on  her 
father  could  be  persuaded  to  leave  Arthur  in  charge 
of  the  works,  and  come  to  live  with  her  in  London. 
There  was  a  fine  block  of  flats  near  Chelsea  Church 
with  long  views  up  and  down  the  river.  How  happy 
they  could  be  there ;  the  drawing-room  in  the  Adams 
style  with  wine-coloured  curtains !  He  was  a  father 
any  young  woman  could  be  proud  to  take  about. 
Unconsciously  she  gave  his  hand  an  impulsive 
squeeze.  They  lunched  at  an  old  inn  upon  the 
moors;  and  the  landlady,  judging  from  his  shy,  at- 
tentive ways,  had  begun  by  addressing  her  as 
Madame. 


204  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  You  grow  wonderfully  like  your  mother,"  he 
told  her  that  evening  at  dinner.  "  There  used  to  be 
something  missing.  But  I  don't  feel  that,  now." 

She  wrote  to  Phillips  to  meet  her,  if  possible,  at 
Euston.  There  were  things  she  wanted  to  talk  to 
him  about.  There  was  the  question  whether  she 
should  go  on  writing  for  Carleton,  or  break  with 
him  at  once.  Also  one  or  two  points  that  were  wor- 
rying her  in  connection  with  tariff  reform.  He  was 
waiting  for  her  on  the  platform.  It  appeared  he, 
too,  had  much  to  say.  He  wanted  her  advice  con- 
cerning his  next  speech.  He  had  not  dined  and  sug- 
gested supper.  They  could  not  walk  about  the 
streets.  Likely  enough,  it  was  only  her  imagination, 
but  it  seemed  to  her  that  people  in  the  restaurant 
had  recognized  him,  and  were  whispering  to  one  an- 
other: he  was  bound  to  be  well  known.  Likewise 
her  own  appearance,  she  felt,  was  against  them  as  re- 
garded their  desire  to  avoid  observation.  She 
would  have  to  take  to  those  mousey  colours  that  did 
not  suit  her,  and  wear  a  veil.  She  hated  the  idea 
of  a  veil.  It  came  from  the  East  and  belonged 
there.  Besides,  what  would  be  the  use?  Unless  he 
wore  one  too.  "  Who  is  the  veiled  woman  that 
Phillips  goes  about  with?"  That  is  what  they 
would  ask.  It  was  going  to  be  very  awkward,  the 
whole  thing.  Viewed  from  the  distance,  it  had 
looked  quite  fine.  "  Dedicating  herself  to  the 
service  of  Humanity  "  was  how  it  had  presented 
itself  to  her  in  the  garden  at  Meudon,  the  twinkling 
labyrinth  of  Paris  at  her  feet,  its  sordid  by-ways 
hidden  beneath  its  myriad  lights.  She  had  not  bar- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  205 

gained  for  the  dedication  involving  the  loss  of  her 
self-respect. 

They  did  not  talk  as  much  as  they  had  thought 
they  would.  He  was  not  very  helpful  on  the  Carle- 
ton  question.  There  was  so  much  to  be  said  both 
for  and  against.  It  might  be  better  to  wait  and  see 
how  circumstances  shaped  themselves.  She  thought 
his  speech  excellent.  It  was  difficult  to  discover 
any  argument  against  it. 

He  seemed  to  be  more  interested  in  looking  at  her 
when  he  thought  she  was  not  noticing.  That  little 
faint  vague  fear  came  back  to  her  and  stayed  with 
her,  but  brought  no  quickening  of  her  pulse.  It  was 
a  fear  of  something  ugly.  She  had  the  feeling  they 
were  both  acting,  that  everything  depended  upon 
their  not  forgetting  their  parts.  In  handing  things 
to  one  another,  they  were  both  of  them  so  careful 
that  their  hands  should  not  meet  and  touch. 

They  walked  together  back  to  Westminster  and 
wished  each  other  a  short  good-night  upon  what  once 
had  been  their  common  doorstep.  With  her  latch- 
key in  her  hand,  she  turned  and  watched  his  re- 
treating figure,  and  suddenly  a  wave  of  longing 
seized  her  to  run  after  him  and  call  him  back  —  to 
see  his  eyes  light  up  and  feel  the  pressure  of  his 
hands.  It  was  only  by  clinging  to  the  railings  and 
counting  till  she  was  sure  he  had  entered  his  own 
house  round  the  corner  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him,  that  she  restrained  herself. 

It  was  a  frightened  face  that  looked  at  her  out 
of  the  glass,  as  she  stood  before  it  taking  off  her  hat. 

She  decided  that  their  future  meetings  should  be 


206  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

at  his  own  house.  Mrs.  Phillips's  only  complaint 
was  that  she  knocked  at  the  door  too  seldom. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you,  I 
really  don't,"  confessed  the  grateful  lady.  "  If 
ever  I  become  a  Prime  Minister's  wife,  it's  you  I 
shall  have  to  thank.  You've  got  so  much  courage 
yourself,  you  can  put  the  heart  into  him.  I  never 
had  any  pluck  to  spare  myself." 

She  concluded  by  giving  Joan  a  hug,  accompanied 
by  a  sloppy  but  heartfelt  kiss. 

She  would  stand  behind  Phillips's  chair  with  her 
fat  arms  round  his  neck,  nodding  her  approval  and 
encouragement;  while  Joan,  seated  opposite,  would 
strain  every  nerve  to  keep  her  brain  fixed  upon  the 
argument,  never  daring  to  look  at  poor  Phillips's 
wretched  face,  with  its  pleading,  apologetic  eyes,  lest 
she  should  burst  into  hysterical  laughter.  She  hoped 
she  was  being  helpful  and  inspiring!  Mrs.  Phillips 
would  assure  her  afterwards  that  she  had  been  won- 
derful. As  for  herself,  there  were  periods  when 
she  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  about  what  she  was  talk- 
ing. 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Phillips,  called  away  by  domestic 
duty,  would  leave  them;  returning  full  of  excuses 
just  as  they  had  succeeded  in  forgetting  her.  It  was 
evident  she  was  under  the  impression  that  her  pres- 
ence was  useful  to  them,  making  it  easier  for  them 
to  open  up  their  minds  to  one  another. 

"  Don't  you  be  put  off  by  his  seeming  a  bit  un- 
responsive," Mrs.  Phillips  would  explain.  "  He's 
shy  with  women.  What  I'm  trying  to  do  is  to  make 
him  feel  you  are  one  of  the  family. 

"  And  don't  you  take  any  notice  of  me,"  further 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  207 

explained  the  good  woman,  "  when  I  seem  to  be  in 
opposition,  like.  I  chip  in  now  and  then  on  pur- 
pose, just  to  keep  the  ball  rolling.  It  stirs  him  up, 
a  bit  of  contradictoriness.  You  have  to  live  with 
a  man  before  you  understand  him." 

One  morning  Joan  received  a  letter  from  Phillips, 
marked  immediate.  He  informed  her  that  his  brain 
was  becoming  addled.  He  intended  that  afternoon 
to  give  it  a  draught  of  fresh  air.  He  would  be  at 
the  Robin  Hood  gate  in  Richmond  Park  at  three 
o'clock.  Perhaps  the  gods  would  be  good  to  him. 
He  would  wait  there  for  half  an  hour  to  give  them 
a  chance,  anyway. 

She  slipped  the  letter  unconsciously  into  the  bosom 
of  her  dress,  and  sat  looking  out  of  the  window. 
It  promised  to  be  a  glorious  day,  and  London  was 
stifling  and  gritty.  Surely  no  one  but  an  unwhole- 
some-minded prude  could  gibe  at  a  walk  across  the 
park.  Mrs.  Phillips  would  be  delighted  to  hear  that 
she  had  gone.  For  the  matter  of  that,  she  would 
tell  her  —  when  next  they  met. 

Phillips  must  have  seen  her  getting  off  the  bus, 
for  he  came  forward  at  once  from  the  other  side 
of  the  gate,  his  face  radiant  with  boyish  delight.  A 
young  man  and  woman,  entering  the  park  at  the 
same  time,  looked  at  them  and  smiled  sympa- 
thetically. 

Joan  had  no  idea  the  park  contained  such  pleasant 
by-ways.  But  for  an  occasional  perambulator  they 
might  have  been  in  the  heart  of  the  country.  The 
fallow  deer  stole  near  to  them  with  noiseless  feet, 
regarding  them  out  of  their  large  gentle  eyes  with 
looks  of  comradeship.  They  paused  and  listened 


208  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

while  a  missal  thrush  from  a  branch  close  to  them 
poured  out  his  song  of  hope  and  courage.  From 
quite  a  long  way  off  they  could  still  hear  his  clear 
voice  singing,  telling  to  the  young  and  brave  his 
gallant  message.  It  seemed  too  beautiful  a  day  for 
politics.  After  all,  politics  —  one  has  them  always 
with  one ;  but  the  spring  passes. 

He  saw  her  on  to  a  bus  at  Kingston,  and  himself 
went  back  by  train.  They  agreed  they  would  not 
mention  it  to  Mrs.  Phillips.  Not  that  she  would 
have  minded.  The  danger  was  that  she  would  want 
to  come,  too;  honestly  thinking  thereby  to  complete 
their  happiness.  It  seemed  to  be  tacitly  understood 
there  would  be  other  such  excursions. 

The  summer  was  propitious.  Phillips  knew  his 
London  well,  and  how  to  get  away  from  it.  There 
were  winding  lanes  in  Hertfordshire,  Surrey  hills 
and  commons,  deep,  cool,  bird-haunted  woods  in 
Buckingham.  Each  week  there  was  something  to 
look  forward  to,  something  to  plan  for  and  manoeu- 
vre. The  sense  of  adventure,  a  spice  of  danger, 
added  zest.  She  still  knocked  frequently,  as  before, 
at  the  door  of  the  hideously-furnished  little  house 
in  North  Street;  but  Mrs.  Phillips  no  longer  op- 
pressed her  as  some  old  man  of  the  sea  she  could 
never  hope  to  shake  off  from  her  shoulders.  The 
flabby,  foolish  face,  robbed  of  its  terrors,  became 
merely  pitiful.  She  found  herself  able  to  be  quite 
gentle  and  patient  with  Mrs.  Phillips.  Even  the 
sloppy  kisses  she  came  to  bear  without  a  shudder 
down  her  spine. 

"  I  know  you  are  only  doing  it  because  you  sym- 
pathize with  his  aims  and  want  him  to  win,"  acknowl- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  209 

edged  the  good  lady.  "  But  I  can't  help  feeling 
grateful  to  you.  I  don't  feel  how  useless  I  am 
while  I've  got  you  to  run  to." 

They  still  discussed  their  various  plans  for  the 
amelioration  and  improvement  of  humanity;  but 
there  seemed  less  need  for  haste  than  they  had 
thought.  The  world,  Joan  discovered,  was  not  so 
sad  a  place  as  she  had  judged  it.  There  were 
chubby,  rogue-eyed  children;  whistling  lads  and 
smiling  maidens ;  kindly  men  with  ruddy  faces ;  happy 
mothers  crooning  over  gurgling  babies.  There 
was  no  call  to  be  fretful  and  vehement.  They 
would  work  together  in  patience  and  in  confi- 
dence. God's  sun  was  everywhere.  It  needed  only 
that  dark  places  should  be  opened  up  and  it  would 
enter. 

Sometimes,  seated  on  a  lichened  log,  or  on  the 
short  grass  of  some  sloping  hillside,  looking  down 
upon  some  quiet  valley,  they  would  find  they  had 
been  holding  hands  while  talking.  It  was  but  as 
two  happy,  thoughtless  children  might  have  done. 
They  would  look  at  one  another  with  frank,  clear 
eyes  and  smile. 

Once,  when  their  pathway  led  through  a  littered 
farmyard,  he  had  taken  her  up  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ried her;  and  she  had  felt  a  glad  pride  in  him  that 
he  had  borne  her  lightly  as  if  she  had  been  a  child, 
looking  up  at  her  and  laughing. 

An  old  bent  man  paused  from  his  work  and 
watched  them.  "  Lean  more  over  him,  missie,"  he 
advised  her.  "  That's  the  way.  Many  a  mile  I've 
carried  my  lass  like  that,  in  flood  time;  and  never 
felt  her  weight." 


210  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Often  on  returning  home,  not  knowing  why,  she 
would  look  into  the  glass.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  girlhood  she  had  somehow  missed  was  awakening 
in  her,  taking  possession  of  her,  changing  her.  The 
lips  she  had  always  seen  pressed  close  and  firm  were 
growing  curved,  leaving  a  little  parting,  as  though 
they  were  not  quite  so  satisfied  with  one  another. 
The  level  brows  were  becoming  slightly  raised.  It 
gave  her  a  questioning  look  that  was  new  to  her. 
The  eyes  beneath  were  less  confident.  They  seemed 
to  be  seeking  something. 

One  evening,  on  her  way  home  from  a  theatre,  she 
met  Flossie.  "  Can't  stop  now,"  said  Flossie,  who 
was  hurrying.  "  But  I  want  to  see  you :  most  par- 
ticular. Was  going  to  look  you  up.  Will  you  be 
at  home  tomorrow  afternoon  at  tea-time?" 

There  was  a  distinct  challenge  in  Flossie's  eye  as 
she  asked  the  question.  Joan  felt  herself  flush,  and 
thought  a  moment. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Will  you  be  coming 
alone?" 

"  That's  the  idea,"  answered  Flossie;  "  a  heart  to 
heart  talk  between  you  and  me,  and  nobody  else. 
Half-past  four.  Don't  forget." 

Joan  walked  on  slowly.  She  had  the  worried  feel- 
ing with  which,  once  or  twice,  when  a  schoolgirl,  she 
had  crawled  up  the  stairs  to  bed  after  the  head 
mistress  had  informed  her  that  she  would  see  her 
in  her  private  room  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing, leaving  her  to  guess  what  about.  It  occurred 
to  her,  in  Trafalgar  Square,  that  she  had  promised 
to  take  tea  with  the  Greysons  the  next  afternoon,  to 
meet  some  big  pot  from  America.  She  would  have 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  211 

to  get  out  of  that.  She  felt  it  wouldn't  do  to  put  off 
Flossie. 

She  went  to  bed  wakeful.  It  was  marvellously 
like  being  at  school  again.  What  could  Flossie  want 
to  see  her  about  that  was  so  important?  She  tried 
to  pretend  to  herself  that  she  didn't  know.  After 
all,  perhaps  it  wasn't  that. 

But  she  knew  that  it  was  the  instant  Flossie  put  up 
her  hands  in  order  to  take  off  her  hat.  Flossie  al- 
ways took  off  her  hat  when  she  meant  to  be  unpleas- 
ant. It  was  her  way  of  pulling  up  her  sleeves. 
They  had  their  tea  first.  They  seemed  bath  agreed 
that  that  would  be  'best.  And  then  Flossie  pushed 
back  her  chair  and  sat  up. 

She  had  just  the  head  mistress  expression.  Joan 
wasn't  quite  sure  she  oughtn't  to  stand.  But,  con- 
trolling the  instinct,  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and  tried 
to  look  defiant  without  feeling  it. 

"  How  far  are  you  going?  "  demanded  Flossie. 

Joan  was  not  in  a  comprehending  mood. 

"  If  you're  going  the  whole  hog,  that's  something 
I  can  understand,"  continued  Flossie.  "  If  not, 
you'd  better  pull  up." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  whole  hog?"  re- 
quested Joan,  assuming  dignity. 

"  Oh,  don't  come  the  kid,"  advised  Flossie.  "  If 
you  don't  mind  being  talked  about  yourself,  you 
might  think  of  him.  If  Carleton  gets  hold  of  it,  he's 
done  for." 

"  '  A  little  bird  whispers  to  me  that  Robert  Phil- 
lips was  seen  walking  across  Richmond  Park  the 
other  afternoon  in  company  with  Miss  Joan  Allway, 
formerly  one  of  our  contributors.'  Is  that  going 


212  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

to  end  his  political  career?  "  retorted  Joan  with  fine 
sarcasm. 

Flossie  fixed  a  relentless  eye  upon  her.  "  He'll 
wait  till  the  bird  has  got  a  bit  more  than  that  to  whis- 
per to  him,"  she  suggested. 

"  There'll  be  nothing  more,"  explained  Joan. 
"  So  long  as  my  friendship  is  of  any  assistance  to 
Robert  Phillips  in  his  work,  he's  going  to  have  it. 
What  use  are  we  going  to  be  in  politics  —  what's 
all  the  fuss  about,  if  men  and  women  mustn't  work 
together  for  their  common  aims  and  help  one  an- 
other?" 

"  Why  can't  you  help  him  in  his  own  house,  instead 
of  wandering  all  about  the  country?  "  Flossie  wanted 
to  know. 

"  So  I  do,"  Joan  defended  herself.  "  I'm  in  and 
out  there  till  I'm  sick  of  the  hideous  place.  You 
haven't  seen  the  inside.  And  his  wife  knows  all 
about  it,  and  is  only  too  glad." 

"  Does  she  know  about  Richmond  Park  —  and  the 
other  places?  "  asked  Flossie. 

"  She  wouldn't  mind  if  she  did,"  explained  Joan. 
"  And  you  know  what  she's  like !  How  can  one  think 
what  one's  saying  with  that  silly,  goggle-eyed  face 
in  front  of  one  always?  " 

Flossie,  since  she  had  become  engaged,  had  ac- 
quired quite  a  matronly  train  of  thought.  She  spoke 
kindly,  with  a  little  grave  shake  of  her  head.  "  My 
dear,"  she  said,  "  the  wife  is  always  in  the  way. 
You'd  feel  just  the  same  whatever  her  face  was  like." 

Joan  grew  angry.  "  If  you  choose  to  suspect 
evil,  of  course  you  can,"  she  answered  with  hauteur. 
"  But  you  might  have  known  me  better.  I  admire 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  213 

the  man  and  sympathize  with  him.  All  the  things 
I  dream  of  are  the  things  he  is  working  for.  I  can 
do  more  good  by  helping  and  inspiring  him  "  —  she 
wished  she  had  not  let  slip  that  word  "  inspire." 
She  knew  that  Flossie  would  fasten  upon  it  —  "  than 
I  can  ever  accomplish  by  myself.  And  I  mean  to  do 
it."  She  really  did  feel  defiant,  now. 

"  I  know,  dear,"  agreed  Flossie,  "  you've  both  of 
you  made  up  your  minds  it  shall  always  remain  a 
beautiful  union  of  twin  spirits.  Unfortunately 
you've  both  got  bodies  —  rather  attractive  bodies." 

"  We'll  keep  it  off  that  plane,  if  you  don't  mind," 
answered  Joan  with  a  touch  of  severity. 

"  I'm  willing  enough,"  answered  Flossie.  "  But 
what  about  Old  Mother  Nature?  She's  going  to  be 
in  this,  you  know. 

"  Take  off  your  glasses  and  look  at  it  straight," 
she  went  on,  without  giving  Joan  time  to  reply. 
"  What  is  it  in  us  that  '  inspires  '  men?  If  it's  only 
advice  and  sympathy  he's  after,  what's  wrong  with 
dear  old  Mrs.  Denton?  She's  a  good  walker,  ex- 
cept now  and  then,  when  she's  got  the  lumbago. 
Why  doesn't  he  get  her  to  '  inspire  '  him?  " 

"  Ii  isn't  only  that,"  explained  Joan.  "  I  give 
him  courage.  I  always  did  have  more  of  that  than 
is  any  use  to  a  woman.  He  wants  to  be  worthy  of 
my  belief  in  him.  What  is  the  harm  if  he  does  ad- 
mire me  —  if  a  smile  from  me  or  a  touch  of  the  hand 
can  urge  him  to  fresh  effort?  Suppose  he  does  love 
me " 

Flossie  interrupted.  "  How  about  being  quite 
frank?  "  she  suggested.  "  Suppose  we  do  love  one 
another.  How  about  putting  it  that  way?  " 


214  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"And  suppose  we  do?"  agreed  Joan,  her  cour- 
age rising.  "  Why  should  we  shun  one  another,  as 
if  we  were  both  of  us  incapable  of  decency  or  self- 
control?  Why  must  love  be  always  assumed  to 
make  us  weak  and  contemptible,  as  if  it  were  some 
subtle  poison?  Why  shouldn't  it  strengthen  and 
ennoble  us?  " 

'Why  did  the  apple  fall?"  answered  Flossie. 
"  Why,  when  it  escapes  from  its  bonds,  doesn't  it 
soar  upward?  If  it  wasn't  for  the  irritating  law  of 
gravity,  we  could  skip  about  on  the  brink  of  preci- 
pices without  danger.  Things  being  what  they  are, 
sensible  people  keep  as  far  away  from  the  edge  as 
possible. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  continued;  "  awfully  sorry,  old 
girl.  It's  a  bit  of  rotten  bad  luck  for  both  of  you. 
You  were  just  made  for  one  another.  And  Fate, 
knowing  what  was  coming,  bustles  round  and  gets 
hold  of  poor,  silly  Mrs.  Phillips  so  as  to  be  able  to 
say  '  Yah.' 

"  Unless  it  all  comes  right  in  the  end,"  she  added 
musingly;  "  and  the  poor  old  soul  pegs  out.  I 
wouldn't  give  much  for  her  liver." 

"  That's  not  bringing  me  up  well,"  suggested 
Joan:  "  putting  those  ideas  into  my  head." 

"  Oh,  well,  one  can't  help  one's  thoughts,"  ex- 
plained Flossie.  "  It  would  be  a  blessing  all  round." 

They  had  risen.  Joan  folded  her  hands.  u  Thank 
you  for  your  scolding,  ma'am,"  she  said.  "  Shall 
I  write  out  a  hundred  lines  of  Greek?  Or  do  you 
think  it  will  be  sufficient  if  I  promise  never  to  do  it 
again?  " 

"  You  mean  it?  "  said  Flossie.     "  Of  course  you 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  215 

will  go  on  seeing  him  —  visiting  them,  and  all  that. 
But  you  won't  go  gadding  about,  so  that  people  can 
talk?" 

"  Only  through  the  bars,  in  future,"  she  promised. 
"  With  the  gaoler  between  us."  She  put  her  arms 
round  Flossie  and  bent  her  head,  so  that  her  face  was 
hidden. 

Flossie   still  seemed  troubled.     She  held  on  to 

Joan.     "You   are   sure   of  yourself?"   she   asked. 

'  We're  only  the  female  of  the  species.     We  get 

hungry  and  thirsty,   too.     You  know  that,   kiddy, 

don't  you?" 

Joan  laughed  without  raising  her  face.  "  Yes, 
ma'am,  I  know  that,"  she  answered.  "  I'll  be 
good." 

She  sat  in  the  dusk  after  Flossie  had  gone;  and 
the  laboured  breathing  of  the  tired  city  came  to  her 
through  the  open  window.  She  had  rather  fancied 
that  martyr's  crown.  It  had  not  looked  so  very 
heavy,  the  thorns  not  so  very  alarming  —  as  seen 
through  the  window.  She  would  wear  it  bravely. 
It  would  rather  become  her. 

Facing  the  mirror  of  the  days  to  come,  she  tried 
it  on.  It  was  going  to  hurt.  There  was  no  doubt 
of  that.  She  saw  the  fatuous,  approving  face  of  the 
eternal  Mrs.  Phillips,  thrust  ever  between  them, 
against  the  background  of  that  hideous  furniture, 
of  those  bilious  wall  papers  —  the  loneliness  that 
would  ever  walk  with  her,  sit  down  beside  her  in  the 
crowded  restaurant,  steal  up  the  staircase  with  her, 
creep  step  by  step  with  her  from  room  to  room  — 
the  ever  unsatisfied  yearning  for  a  tender  word,  a 
kindly  touch.  Yes,  it  was  going  to  hurt. 


216 

Poor  Robert!  It  would  be  hard  on  him,  too. 
She  could  not  help  feeling  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  he  also  would  be  wearing  that  invisible  crown. 

She  must  write  to  him.  The  sooner  it  was  done, 
the  better.  Half  a  dozen  contradictory  moods 
passed  over  her  during  the  composing  of  that  letter; 
but  to  her  they  seemed  but  the  unfolding  of  a  single 
thought.  On  one  page  it  might  have  been  his 
mother  writing  to  him;  an  experienced,  sagacious 
lady;  quite  aware,  in  spite  of  her  affection  for  him, 
of  his  faults  and  weaknesses;  solicitous  that  he 
should  avoid  the  dangers  of  an  embarrassing  en- 
tanglement; his  happiness  being  the  only  considera- 
tion of  importance.  On  others  it  might  have  been 
a  queen  laying  her  immutable  commands  upon  some 
loyal  subject,  sworn  to  her  service.  Part  of  it 
might  have  been  written  by  a  laughing  philosopher 
who  had  learnt  the  folly  of  taking  life  too  seriously, 
knowing  that  all  things  pass:  that  the  tears  of  today 
will  be  remembered  with  a  smile.  And  a  part  of  it 
was  the  unconsidered  language  of  a  loving  woman. 
And  those  were  the  pages  that  he  kissed. 

His  letter  in  answer  was  much  shorter.  Of 
course  he  would  obey  her  wishes.  He  had  been  sel- 
fish, thinking  only  of  himself.  As  for  his  political 
career,  he  did  not  see  how  that  was  going  to  suffer 
by  his  being  occasionally  seen  in  company  with  one 
of  the  most  brilliantly  intellectual  women  in  London, 
known  to  share  his  views.  And  he  didn't  care  if  it 
did.  But  inasmuch  as  she  valued  it,  all  things  should 
be  sacrificed  to  it.  It  was  hers  to  do  what  she  would 
with.  It  was  the  only  thing  he  had  to  offer  her. 

Their  meetings  became  confined,  as  before,  to  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  217 

little  house  in  North  Street.  But  it  really  seemed 
as  if  the  gods,  appeased  by  their  submission,  had  de- 
cided to  be  kind.  Hilda  was  home  for  the  holidays; 
and  her  piercing  eyes  took  in  the  situation  at  a  flash. 
She  appeared  to  have  returned  with  a  new-born  and 
exacting  affection  for  her  mother,  that  astonished 
almost  as  much  as  it  delighted  the  poor  lady.  Feel- 
ing sudden  desire  for  a  walk  or  a  bus  ride,  or  to  be 
taken  to  an  entertainment,  no  one  was  of  any  use  to 
Hilda  but  her  mother.  Daddy  had  his  silly  politics 
to  think  and  talk  about.  He  must  worry  them  out 
alone;  or  with  the  assistance  of  Miss  Allway.  That 
was  what  she  was  there  for.  Mrs.  Phillips,  torn 
between  her  sense  of  duty  and  fear  of  losing  this 
new  happiness,  would  yield  to  the  child's  coaxing. 
Often  they  would  be  left  alone  to  discuss  the  nation's 
needs  uninterrupted.  Conscientiously  they  would 
apply  themselves  to  the  task.  Always  to  find  that, 
sooner  or  later,  they  were  looking  at  one  another,  in 
silence. 

One  day  Phillips  burst  into  a  curious  laugh.  They 
had  been  discussing  the  problem  of  the  smallholder. 
Joan  had  put  a  question  to  him,  and  with  a  slight 
start  he  had  asked  her  to  repeat  it.  But  it  seemed 
she  had  forgotten  it. 

"  I  had  to  see  our  solicitor  one  morning,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  when  I  was  secretary  to  a  miners'  union 
up  north.  A  point  had  arisen  concerning  the  legality 
of  certain  payments.  It  was  a  matter  of  vast  im- 
portance to  us;  but  he  didn't  seem  to  be  taking  any 
interest,  and  suddenly  he  jumped  up.  '  I'm  sorry, 
Phillips,'  he  said,  '  but  I've  got  a  big  trouble  of  my 
own  on  at  home  —  I  guess  you  know  what  —  and  I 


218  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

don't  seem  to  care  a  damn  about  yours.  You'd  bet- 
ter see  Delauny,  if  you're  in  a  hurry.'  And  I  did." 

He  turned  and  leant  over  his  desk.  "  I  guess 
they'll  have  to  find  another  leader  if  they're  in  a 
hurry,"  he  added.  "  I  don't  seem  able  to  think 
about  turnips  and  cows." 

"  Don't  make  me  feel  I've  interfered  with  your 
work  only  to  spoil  it,"  said  Joan. 

"  I  guess  I'm  spoiling  yours,  too,"  he  answered. 
"  I'm  not  worth  it.  I  might  have  done  something 
to  win  you  and  keep  you.  I'm  not  going  to  do  much 
without  you." 

"  You  mean  my  friendship  is  going  to  be  of  no  use 
to  you?  "  asked  Joan. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  her  with  a 
pleading,  dog-like  look. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  take  even  that  away  from 
me,"  he  said.  "  Unless  you  want  me  to  go  to  pieces 
altogether.  A  crust  does  just  keep  one  alive.  One 
can't  help  thinking  what  a  fine,  strong  chap  one 
might  be  if  one  wasn't  always  hungry." 

She  felt  so  sorry  for  him.  He  looked  such  a  boy, 
with  the  angry  tears  in  his  clear  blue  eyes,  and  that 
little  childish  quivering  of  the  kind,  strong,  sulky 
mouth. 

She  rose  and  took  his  head  between  her  hands 
and  turned  his  face  towards  her.  She  had  meant  to 
scold  him,  but  changed  her  mind  and  laid  his  head 
against  her  breast  and  held  it  there. 

He  clung  to  her,  as  a  troubled  child  might,  with 
his  arms  clasped  round  her,  and  his  head  against  her 
breast.  And  a  mist  rose  up  before  her,  and  strange, 
commanding  voices  seemed  calling  to  her. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  219 

He  could  not  see  her  face.  She  watched  it  her- 
self with  dim  half  consciousness  as  it  changed  before 
her  in  the  tawdry  mirror  above  the  mantelpiece,  half 
longing  that  he  might  look  up  and  see  it,  half  terri- 
fied lest  he  should. 

With  an  effort  that  seemed  to  turn  her  into  stone, 
she  regained  command  over  herself. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said  in  a  harsh  voice,  and 
he  released  her. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  an  awful  nuisance  to  you,"  he 
said.  "  I  get  these  moods  at  times.  You're  not 
angry  with  me?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  with  a  smile.  "  But  it  will 
hurt  me  if  you  fail.  Remember  that." 

She  turned  down  the  Embankment  after  leaving 
the  house.  She  always  found  the  river  strong  and 
restful.  So  it  was  not  only  bad  women  that  needed 
to  be  afraid  of  themselves  —  even  to  the  most  high- 
class  young  woman,  with  letters  after  her  name,  and 
altruistic  interests:  even  to  her,  also,  the  longing 
for  the  lover's  clasp.  Flossie  had  been  right. 
Mother  Nature  was  not  to  be  flouted  of  her  children 
—  not  even  of  her  new  daughters;  to  them,  likewise, 
the  family  trait. 

She  would  have  run  away  if  she  could,  leaving  him 
to  guess  at  her  real  reason  —  if  he  were  smart 
enough.  But  that  would  have  meant  excuses  and 
explanations  all  round.  She  was  writing  a  daily 
column  of  notes  for  Greyson  now,  in  addition  to  the 
weekly  letter  from  Clorinda;  and  Mrs.  Denton,  hav- 
ing compromised  with  her  first  dreams,  was  dele- 
gating to  Joan  more  and  more  of  her  work.  She 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Phillips  that  she  was  feeling  unwell 


220  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

and  would  be  unable  to  lunch  with  them  on  the  Sun- 
day, as  had  been  arranged.  Mrs.  Phillips,  much 
disappointed,  suggested  Wednesday;  but  it  seemed 
on  Wednesday  she  was  no  better.  And  so  it  drifted 
on  for  about  a  fortnight,  without  her  finding  the 
courage  to  come  to  any  decision ;  and  then  one  morn- 
ing, turning  the  corner  into  Abingdon  Street,  she 
felt  a  slight  pull  at  her  sleeve;  and  Hilda  was  beside 
her.  The  child  had  shown  an  uncanny  intuition  in 
not  knocking  at  the  door.  Joan  had  been  fearing 
that,  and  would  have  sent  down  word  that  she  was 
out.  But  it  had  to  be  faced. 

"  Are  you  never  coming  again?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Joan,  "  when  I'm  better. 
I'm  not  very  well  just  now.  It's  the  weather,  I  sup- 
pose." 

The  child  turned  her  head  as  they  walked  and 
looked  at  her.  Joan  felt  herself  smarting  under  that 
look,  but  persisted. 

"  I'm  very  much  run  down,"  she  said.  u  I  may 
have  to  go  away." 

"  You  promised  to  help  him,"  said  the  child. 

"  I  can't  if  I'm  ill,"  retorted  Joan.  "  Besides,  I 
am  helping  him.  There  are  other  ways  of  help- 
ing people  than  by  wasting  their  time  talking  to 
them." 

"  He  wants  you,"  said  the  child.  "  It's  your  be- 
ing there  that  helps  him." 

Joan  stopped  and  turned.  "  Did  he  send  you?" 
she  asked. 

"  No,"  the  child  answered.  "  Mamma  has  a 
headache  this  morning,  and  I  slipped  out.  You're 
not  keeping  your  promise." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  221 

Palace  Yard,  save  for  a  statuesque  policeman,  was 
empty. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  my  being  with  him  helps 
him?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  You  know  things  when  you  love  anybody,"  ex- 
plained the  child.  '  You  feel  them.  You  will  come 
again,  soon?  " 

Joan  did  not  answer. 

"  You're  frightened,"  the  child  continued  in  a  pas- 
sionate, law  voice.  '  You  think  that  people  will  talk 
about  you  and  look  down  upon  you.  You  oughtn't 
to  think  about  yourself.  You  ought  to  think  only 
about  him  and  his  work.  Nothing  else  matters." 

"  I  a-m  thinking  about  him  and  his  work,"  Joan 
answered.  Her  hand  sought  Hilda's  and  held  it. 
"  There  are  things  you  don't  understand.  Men  and 
women  can't  help  each  other  in  the  way  you  think. 
They  may  try  to,  and  mean  no  harm  in  the  begin- 
ning, but  the  harm  comes,  and  then  not  only  the 
woman  but  the  man  also  suffers,  and  his  work  is  spoilt 
and  his  life  ruined." 

The  small,  hot  hand  clasped  Joan's  convulsively. 

"  But  he  won't  be  able  to  do  his  work  if  you  keep 
away  and  never  come  back  to  him,"  she  persisted. 
"  Oh,  I  know  it.  It  all  depends  upon  you.  He 
wants  you." 

"  And  I  want  him,  if  that's  any  consolation  to 
you,"  Joan  answered  with  a  short  laugh.  It  wasn't 
much  of  a  confession.  The  child  was  cute  enough 
to  have  found  that  out  for  herself.  "  Only  you  see 
I  can't  have  him.  And  there's  an  end  of  it." 

They  had  reached  the  Abbey.  Joan  turned  and 
they  retraced  their  steps  slowly. 


222  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  I  shall  be  going  away  soon,  for  a  little  while," 
she  said.  The  talk  had  helped  her  to  decision. 
'  When  I  come  back  I  will  come  and  see  you  all. 
And  you  must  all  come  and  see  me,  now  and  then. 
I  expect  I  shall  have  a  flat  of  my  own.  My  father 
may  be  coming  to  live  with  me.  Good-bye.  Do  all 
you  can  to  help  him." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  the  child,  straining  her  to 
her  almost  fiercely.  But  the  child's  lips  were  cold. 
She  did  not  look  back. 

Miss  Greyson  was  sympathetic  towards  her  desire 
for  a  longish  holiday  and  wonderfully  helpful;  and 
Mrs.  Denton  also  approved,  and,  to  Joan's  surprise, 
kissed  her;  Mrs.  Denton  was  not  given  to  kissing. 
She  wired  to  her  father,  and  got  his  reply  the  same 
evening.  He  would  be  at  her  rooms  on  the  day  she 
had  fixed  with  his  travelling  bag,  and  at  her  Lady- 
ship's orders.  '  With  love  and  many  thanks,"  he 
had  added.  She  waited  till  the  day  before  starting 
to  run  round  and  say  good-bye  to  the  Phillipses. 
She  felt  it  would  be  unwise  to  try  and  get  out  of  do- 
ing that.  Both  Phillips  and  Hilda,  she  was  thank- 
ful, were  out;  and  she  and  Mrs.  Phillips  had  tea 
alone  together.  The  talk  was  difficult,  so  far  as 
Joan  was  concerned.  If  the  woman  had  been  pos- 
sessed of  ordinary  intuition,  she  might  have  arrived 
at  the  truth.  Joan  almost  wished  she  would.  It 
would  make  her  own  future  task  the  easier.  But 
Mrs.  Phillips,  it  was  clear,  was  going  to  be  no  help 
to  her. 

For  her  father's  sake,  she  made  pretence  of  eager- 
ness, but  as  the  sea  widened  between  her  and  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  223 

harbour  lights  it  seemed  as  if  a  part  of  herself  were 
being  torn  away  from  her. 

They  travelled  leisurely  through  Holland  and  the 
Rhineland,  and  that  helped  a  little:  the  new  scenes 
and  interests;  and  in  Switzerland  they  discovered  a 
delightful  little  village  in  an  upland  valley  with  just 
one  small  hotel,  and  decided  to  stay  there  for  a 
while,  so  as  to  give  themselves  time  to  get  their  let- 
ters. They  took  long  walks  and  climbs,  returning 
tired  and  hungry,  looking  forward  to  their  dinner 
and  the  evening  talk  with  the  few  other  guests  on 
the  veranda.  The  days  passed  restfully  in  that  hid- 
den valley.  The  great  white  mountains  closed  her 
in.  They  seemed  so  strong  and  clean. 

It  was  on  the  morning  they  were  leaving  that  a 
telegram  was  put  into  her  hands.  Mrs.  Phillips  was 
ill  at  lodgings  in  Folkestone.  She  hoped  that  Joan, 
on  her  way  back,  would  come  to  see  her. 

She  showed  the  telegram  to  her  father.  "  Do 
you  mind,  Dad,  if  we  go  straight  back?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  dear,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  would  like  to  go  back,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MRS.   PHILLIPS  was   sitting  up  in  an  easy 
chair    near    the    heavily-curtained    windows 
when  Joan  arrived.     It  was  a  pleasant  little  house 
in  the  old  part  of  the  town,  and  looked  out  upon 
the  harbour.     She  was  startlingly  thin  by  compari- 
son with  what  she  had  been;  but  her  face  was  still 
painted.     Phillips  would  run  down  by  the  afternoon 
train  whenever  he  could  get  away.     She  never  knew 
when  he  was  coming,  so  she  explained;  and  she  could 
not  bear  the  idea  of  his  finding  her  "  old  and  ugly." 
She  had  fought  against  his  wish  that  she  should  go 
into  a  nursing  home;  and  Joan,  who  in  the  course  of 
her  work  upon  the  Nursing  Times  had  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  them  as  a  whole,  was  inclined  to  agree 
with  her.     She  was  quite  comfortable  where  she  was. 
The  landlady,  according  to  her  account,  was  a  dear. 
She  had  sent  the  nurse  out  for  a  walk  on  getting 
Joan's  wire,  so  that  they  could  have  a  cosy  chat. 
She  didn't  really  want  much  attendance.     It  was  her 
heart.     It  got  feeble  now  and  then,   and  she  had 
to  keep  very  still;  that  was  all.     Joan  told  how  her 
father  had  suffered  for  years  from  much  the  same 
complaint.     So  long  as  you  were  careful  there  was 
no  danger.     She  must  take  things  easily  and  not 
excite  herself. 

Mrs.  Phillips  acquiesced.     "  It's  turning  me  into  a 

lazy-bones,"  she  said  with  a  smile.      "  I  can  sit  here 

224 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  225 

by  the  hour,  just  watching  the  bustle.  I  was  always 
one  for  a  bit  of  life." 

The  landlady  entered  with  Joan's  tea.  Joan  took 
an  instinctive  dislike  to  her.  She  was  a  large,  flashy 
woman,  wearing  a  quantity  of  cheap  jewellery.  Her 
familiarity  had  about  it  something  almost  threaten- 
ing. Joan  waited  till  she  heard  the  woman's  heavy 
tread  descending  the  stairs,  before  she  expressed  her 
opinion. 

"  I  think  she  only  means  to  be  cheerful,"  explained 
Mrs.  Phillips.  "  She's  quite  a  good  sort,  when  you 
know  her."  The  subject  seemed  in  some  way  to 
trouble  her,  and  Joan  dropped  it. 

They  watched  the  loading  of  a  steamer  while  Joan 
drank  her  tea. 

"  He  will  come  this  afternoon,  I  fancy,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips.  "  I  seem  to  feel  it.  He  will  be  able  to 
see  you  home." 

Joan  started.  She  had  been  thinking  about  Phil- 
lips, wondering  what  she  should  say  to  him  when 
they  met. 

"  What  does  he  think,"  she  asked,  "  about  your 
illness?" 

"  Oh,  it  worries  him,  of  course,  poor  dear,"  Mrs. 
Phillips  answered.  "  You  see,  I've  always  been  such 
a  go-ahead,  as  a  rule.  But  I  think  he's  getting  more 
hopeful.  As  I  tell  him,  I'll  be  all  right  by  the 
autumn.  It  was  that  spell  of  hot  weather  that 
knocked  me  over." 

Joan  was  still  looking  out  of  the  window.  She 
didn't  quite  know  what  to  say.  The  woman's  al- 
tered appearance  had  shocked  her.  Suddenly  she 
felt  a  touch  upon  her  hand. 


226  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  You'll  look  after  him  if  anything  does  happen, 
won't  you  ?  "  The  woman's  eyes  were  pleading  with 
her.  They  seemed  to  have  grown  larger.  '  You 
know  what  I  mean,  dear,  don't  you?  "  she  continued. 
"  It  will  be  such  a  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  it's  all 
right." 

In  answer  the  tears  sprang  to  Joan's  eyes.  She 
knelt  down  and  put  her  arms  about  the  woman. 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,"  she  cried.  "  There's  nothing 
going  to  happen.  You're  going  to  get  fat  and  well 
again;  and  live  to  see  him  Prime  Minister." 

"  I  am  getting  thin,  ain't  I?  "  she  said.  "  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  be  thin."  They  both  laugh&d. 

"  But  I  shan't  see  him  that,  even  if  I  do  live," 
she  went  on.  "  He'll  never  be  that,  without  you. 
And  I'd  be  so  proud  to  think  that  he  would.  I 
shouldn't  mind  going  then,"  she  added. 

Joan  did  not  answer.  There  seemed  no  words 
that  would  come. 

"  You  will  promise,  won't  you?  "  she  persisted,  in 
a  whisper.  "  It's  only  '  in  case  ' —  just  that  I 
needn't  worry  myself." 

Joan  looked  up.  There  was  something  in  the  eyes 
looking  down  upon  her  that  seemed  to  be  compelling 
her. 

"  If  you'll  promise  to  try  and  get  better,"  she  an- 
swered. 

Mrs.  Phillips  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  Of 
course,  dear,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  shall,  now  that 
my  mind  is  easier." 

Phillips  came,  as  Mrs.  Phillips  had  predicted.  He 
was  surprised  at  seeing  Joan.  He  had  not  thought 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  227 

she  could  get  back  so  soon.  He  brought  an  even- 
ing paper  with  him.  It  contained  a  paragraph  to 
the  effect  that  Mrs.  Phillips,  wife  of  the  Rt.  Hon. 
Robert  Phillips,  M.P.,  was  progressing  favourably 
and  hoped  soon  to  be  sufficiently  recovered  to  return 
to  her  London  residence.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  had  a  paragraph  all  to  herself,  headed  with  her 
name.  She  flushed  with  pleasure;  and  Joan  noticed 
that,  after  reading  it  again,  she  folded  the  paper  up 
small  and  slipped  it  into  her  pocket.  The  nurse 
came  in  from  her  walk  a  little  later  and  took  Joan 
downstairs  with  her. 

"  She  ought  not  to  talk  to  more  than  one  person 
at  a  time,"  the  nurse  explained,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head.  She  was  a  quiet,  business-like  woman.  She 
would  not  express  a  definite  opinion. 

"  It's  her  mental  state  that  is  the  trouble,"  was 
all  that  she  would  say.  "  She  ought  to  be  getting 
better.  But  she  doesn't. 

'  You're  not  a  Christian  Scientist,  by  any 
chance?  "  she  asked  Joan  suddenly. 

"  No,"  answered  Joan.  "  Surely  you're  not 
one?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  woman.  "  I  be- 
lieve that  would  do  her  more  good  than  anything 
else.  If  she  would  listen  to  it.  She  seems  to  have 
lost  all  will-power." 

The  nurse  left  her;  and  the  landlady  came  in  to 
lay  the  table.  She  understood  that  Joan  would  be 
dining  with  Mr.  Phillips.  There  was  no  train  till 
the  eight-forty.  She  kept  looking  at  Joan  as  she 
moved  about  the  room.  Joan  was  afraid  she  would 


228  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

begin  to  talk,  but  she  must  have  felt  Joan's  an- 
tagonism for  she  remained  silent.  Once  their  eyes 
met,  and  the  woman  leered  at  her. 

Phillips  came  down  looking  more  cheerful.  He 
had  detected  improvement  in  Mrs.  Phillips.  She 
was  more  hopeful  in  herself.  They  talked  in  low 
tones  during  the  meal,  as  people  do  whose  thoughts 
are  elsewhere.  It  happened  quite  suddenly,  Phillips 
explained.  They  had  come  down  a  few  days  after 
the  rising  of  Parliament.  There  had  been  a  spell 
of  hot  weather;  but  nothing  remarkable.  The  first 
attack  had  occurred  about  three  weeks  ago.  It  was 
just  after  Hilda  had  gone  back  to  school.  He 
wasn't  sure  whether  he  ought  to  send  for  Hilda,  or 
not.  Her  mother  didn't  want  him  to  —  not  just 
yet.  Of  course,  if  she  got  worse,  he  would  have  to. 
What  did  Joan  think?  —  did  she  think  there  was  any 
real  danger? 

Joan  could  not  say.  So  much  depended  upon  the 
general  state  of  health.  There  was  the  case  of  her 
own  father.  Of  course  she  would  always  be  subject 
to  attacks.  But  this  one  would  have  warned  her  to 
be  careful. 

Phillips  thought  that  living  out  of  town  might 
be  better  for  her,  in  the  future  —  somewhere  in  Sur- 
rey, where  he  could  easily  get  up  and  down.  He 
could  sleep  himself  at  the  club  on  nights  when  he 
had  to  be  late. 

They  talked  without  looking  at  one  another. 
They  did  not  speak  about  themselves. 

Mrs.  Phillips  was  in  bed  when  Joan  went  up  to 
say  good-bye.  'You'll  come  again  soon?"  she 
asked,  and  Joan  promised.  "  You've  made  me  so 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  229 

happy,"  she  whispered.     The  nurse  was  in  the  room. 

They  discussed  politics  in  the  train.  Phillips  had 
found  more  support  for  his  crusade  against  Carleton 
than  he  had  expected.  He  was  going  to  open  the  at- 
tack at  once,  thus  forestalling  Carleton's  opposition 
to  his  land  scheme. 

"  It  isn't  going  to  be  the  Daily  This  and  the  Daily 
That  and  the  Weekly  the  Other  all  combined  to  down 
me.  I'm  going  to  tell  the  people  that  it's  Carleton 
and  only  Carleton  —  Carleton  here,  Carleton  there, 
Carleton  everywhere,  against  them.  I'm  going  to 
drag  him  out  into  the  open  and  make  him  put  up 
his  own  fists." 

Joan  undertook  to  sound  Greyson.  She  was  sure 
Greyson  would  support  him,  in  his  balanced,  gentle- 
manly way,  that  could  nevertheless  be  quite  deadly. 

They  grew  less  and  less  afraid  of  looking  at  one 
another  as  they  felt  that  darkened  room  farther  and 
farther  behind  them. 

They  parted  at  Charing  Cross.  Joan  would 
write.  They  agreed  it  would  be  better  to  choose 
separate  days  for  their  visits  to  Folkestone. 

She  ran  against  Madge  in  the  morning,  and  in- 
vited herself  to  tea.  Her  father  had  returned  to 
Liverpool,  and  her  own  rooms,  for  some  reason,  de- 
pressed her.  Flossie  was  there  with  young  Halli- 
day.  They  were  both  off  the  next  morning  to  his 
people's  place  in  Devonshire,  from  where  they  were 
going  to  get  married,  and  had  come  to  say  good- 
bye. Flossie  put  Sam  in  the  passage  and  drew-to 
the  door. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  she  asked.  "How  is 
she?" 


230  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  Oh,  she's  changed  a  good  deal,"  answered  Joan. 
"  But  I  think  she'll  get  over  it  all  right,  if  she's  care- 
ful." 

"  I  shall  hope  for  the  best,"  answered  Flossie. 
"  Poor  old  soul,  she's  had  a  good  time.  Don't  send 
me  a  present;  and  then  I  needn't  send  you  one  — 
when  your  time  comes.  It's  a  silly  custom.  Be- 
sides, I've  nowhere  to  put  it.  Shall  be  in  a  ship  for 
the  next  six  months.  Will  let  you  know  when  we're 
back." 

She  gave  Joan  a  hug  and  a  kiss,  and  was  gone. 
Joan  joined  Madge  in  the  kitchen,  where  she  was 
toasting  buns. 

"  I  suppose  she's  satisfied  herself  that  he's  brainy," 
she  laughed.  "• 

"  Oh,  brains  aren't  everything,"  answered  Madge. 
"  Some  of  the  worst  rotters  the  world  has  ever  been 
cursed  with  have  been  brainy  enough  —  men  and 
women.  We  make  too  much  fuss  about  brains; 
just  as  once  upon  a  time  we  did  about  mere  brute 
strength,  thinking  that  was  all  that  was  needed  to 
make  a  man  great.  Brain  is  only  muscle  translated 
into  civilization.  That's  not  going  to  save  us." 

"  You've  been  thinking,"  Joan  accused  her. 
"  What's  put  all  that  into  your  head?  " 

Madge  laughed.  "  Mixing  with  so  many  brainy 
people,  perhaps,"  she  suggested;  "and  wondering 
what's  become  of  their  souls." 

"  Be  good,  sweet  child.  And  let  who  can  be 
clever,"  Joan  quoted.  "  Would  that  be  your  text?  " 

Madge  finished  buttering  her  buns.  "  Kant, 
wasn't  it,"  she  answered,  "  who  marvelled  chiefly  at 
two  things :  the  starry  firmament  above  him  and  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  231 

moral  law  within  him.  And  they're  one  and  the 
same,  if  he'd  only  thought  it  out.  It's  rather  big  to 
be  good." 

They  carried  their  tea  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Do  you  really  think  she'll  get  over  it?  "  asked 
Madge.  "  Or  is  it  one  of  those  things  one  has  to 
say?" 

"  I  think  she  could,"  answered  Joan,  "  if  she  would 
pull  herself  together.  It's  her  lack  of  will-power 
that's  the  trouble." 

Madge  did  not  reply  immediately.  She  was 
watching  the  rooks  settling  down  for  the  night  in  the 
elm  trees  just  beyond  the  window.  There  seemed 
to  be  much  need  of  coming  and  going,  of  much  caw- 
ing. 

"  I  met  her  pretty  often  during  those  months  that 
Helen  Lavery  was  running  her  round,"  she  said  at 
length.  "  It  always  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  touch 
of  the  heroic,  that  absurd  effort  she  was  making  to 
'  qualify  '  herself,  so  that  she  might  be  of  use  to  him. 
I  can  see  her  doing  something  quite  big,  if  she 
thought  it  would  help  him." 

The  cawing  of  the  rooks  grew  fainter.  One  by 
one  they  folded  their  wings. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  while.  Later  on,  they  talked 
about  the  coming  election.  If  the  Party  got  back, 
Phillips  would  go  to  the  Board  of  Trade.  It  would 
afford  him  a  better  platform  for  the  introduction  of 
his  land  scheme. 

"What  do  you  gather  is  the  general  opinion?" 
Joan  asked.  '  That  he  will  succeed?  " 

"  The  general  opinion  seems  to  be  that  his  star  is 
in  the  ascendant,"  Madge  answered  with  a  smile; 


232  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  that  all  things  are  working  together  for  his  good. 
It's  rather  a  useful  atmosphere  to  have  about  one, 
that.  It  breeds  friendship  and  support!  " 

Joan  looked  at  her  watch.  She  had  an  article  to 
finish.  Madge  stood  on  tiptoe  and  kissed  her. 

"  Don't  think  me  unsympathetic,"  she  said.  "  No 
one  will  rejoice  more  than  I  shall  if  God  sees  fit  to 
call  you  to  good  work.  But  I  can't  help  letting  fall 
my  little  tear  of  fellowship  with  the  weeping. 

"  And  mind  your  p's  and  q's,"  she  added. 
"  You're  in  a  difficult  position.  And  not  all  the 
eyes  watching  you  are  friendly." 

Joan  bore  the  germ  of  worry  in  her  breast  as  she 
crossed  the  Gray's  Inn  Garden.  It  was  a  hard  law, 
that  of  the  world :  knowing  only  winners  and  losers. 
Of  course,  the  woman  was  to  be  pitied.  No  one 
could  feel  more  sorry  for  her  than  Joan  herself. 
But  what  had  Madge  exactly  meant  by  those  words: 
that  she  could  "  see  her  doing  something  really  big," 
if  she  thought  it  would  help  him?  There  was  no 
doubt  about  her  affection  for  him.  It  was  almost 
dog-like.  And  the  child,  also!  There  must  be 
something  quite  exceptional  about  him  to  have  won 
the  devotion  of  two  such  opposite  beings.  Espe- 
cially Hilda.  It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  any 
lengths  to  which  Hilda's  blind  idolatry  would  not 
lead  her. 

She  ran  down  twice  to  Folkestone  during  the  fol- 
lowing week.  Her  visits  made  her  mind  easier. 
Mrs.  Phillips  seemed  so  placid,  so  contented.  There 
was  no  suggestion  of  suffering,  either  mental  or 
physical. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  233 

She  dined  with  the  Greysons  the  Sunday  after,  and 
mooted  the  question  of  the  coming  fight  with  Carle- 
ton.  Greyson  thought  Phillips  would  find  plenty  of 
journalistic  backing.  The  concentration  of  the 
Press  into  the  hands  of  a  few  conscienceless  schemers 
was  threatening  to  reduce  the  journalist  to  a  mere 
hireling,  and  the  better-class  men  were  becoming 
seriously  alarmed.  He  found  in  his  desk  the  report 
of  a  speech  made  by  a  well-known  leader  writer  at 
a  recent  dinner  of  the  Press  Club.  The  man  had 
risen  to  respond  to  the  toast  of  his  own  health  and 
had  taken  the  opportunity  to  unpack  his  heart. 

"  I  am  paid  a  thousand  a  year,"  so  Greyson  read 
to  them,  "  for  keeping  my  own  opinions  out  of  my 
paper.  Some  of  you,  perhaps,  earn  more,  and  others 
less;  but  you're  getting  it  for  writing  what  you're 
told.  If  I  were  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  express  my 
honest  opinion,  I'd  be  on  the  street,  the  next  morn- 
ing, looking  for  another  job. 

"  The  business  of  the  journalist,"  the  man  had 
continued,  "  is  to  destroy  the  truth,  to  lie,  to  pervert, 
to  vilify,  to  fawn  at  the  feet  of  Mammon,  to  sell 
his  soul  for  his  daily  bread.  We  are  the  tools  and 
vassals  of  rich  men  behind  the  scenes.  We  are  the 
jumping-jacks.  They  pull  the  strings  and  we  dance. 
Our  talents,  our  possibilities,  our  lives  are  the  prop- 
erty of  other  men." 

"  We  tried  to  pretend  it  was  only  one  of  Jack's 
little  jokes,"  explained  Greyson  as  he  folded  up  the 
cutting;  "  but  it  wouldn't  work.  It  was  too  near  the 
truth." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  are  going  to  do,"  com- 


234  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

merited  Mary.  "  So  long  as  men  are  not  afraid  to 
sell  their  souls,  there  will  always  be  a  Devil's  market 
for  them." 

Greyson  did  not  so  much  mind  there  being  a 
Devil's  market,  provided  he  could  be  assured  of  an 
honest  market  alongside,  so  that  a  man  could  take 
his  choice.  What  he  feared  was  the  Devil's  steady 
encroachment,  that  could  only  end  by  the  closing  of 
the  independent  market  altogether.  His  remedy 
was  the  introduction  of  the  American  trust  law,  for- 
bidding any  one  man  being  interested  in  more  than 
a  limited  number  of  journals. 

"  But  what's  the  difference,"  demanded  Joan,  "  be- 
tween a  man  owning  one  paper  with  a  circulation  of, 
say,  six  millions;  or  owning  six  with  a  circulation  of 
a  million  apiece?  By  concentrating  all  his  energies 
on  one,  a  man  with  Carleton's  organizing  genius 
might  easily  establish  a  single  journal  that  would 
cover  the  whole  field." 

"  Just  all  the  difference,"  answered  Greyson,  "  be- 
tween Pooh  Bah  as  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  or 
Lord  High  Admiral,  or  Chief  Executioner,  which- 
ever he  preferred  to  be,  and  Pooh  Bah  as  all  the 
Officers  of  State  rolled  into  one.  Pooh  Bah  may 
be  a  very  able  statesman,  entitled  to  exert  his  legiti- 
mate influence.  But,  after  all,  his  opinion  is  only 
the  opinion  of  one  old  gentleman,  with  possible 
prejudices  and  preconceived  convictions.  The  Mi- 
kado —  or  the  people,  according  to  locality  —  would 
like  to  hear  the  views  of  others  of  his  ministers.  He 
finds  that  the  Lord  Chancellor  and  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice  and  the  Groom  of  the  Bedchamber  and  the 
Attorney-General  —  the  whole  entire  Cabinet,  in 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  235 

short,  are  unanimously  of  the  same  opinion  as  Pooh 
Bah.  He  doesn't  know  it's  only  Pooh  Bah  speaking 
from  different  corners  of  the  stage.  The  consensus 
of  opinion  convinces  him.  One  statesman,  however 
eminent,  might  err  in  judgment.  But  half  a  score 
of  statesmen,  all  of  one  mind!  One  must  accept 
their  verdict." 

Mary  smiled.  "  But  why  shouldn't  the  good 
newspaper  proprietor  hurry  up  and  become  a  multi- 
proprietor?  "  she  suggested.  "  Why  don't  you  per- 
suade Lord  Sutcliffe  to  buy  up  three  or  four  papers, 
before  they're  all  gone?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  the  Devil  to  get  hold  of 
him,"  answered  Greyson. 

'  You've  got  to  face  this  unalterable  law,"  he 
continued.  '  That  power  derived  from  worldly 
sources  can  only  be  employed  for  worldly  purposes. 
The  power  conferred  by  popularity,  by  wealth,  by 
that  ability  to  make  use  of  other  men  that  we  term 
organization  —  sooner  or  later,  the  man  who  wields 
that  power  becomes  the  Devil's  servant.  So  long  as 
Kingship  was  merely  a  force  struggling  against  an- 
archy, it  was  a  holy  weapon.  As  it  grew  in  power 
so  it  degenerated  into  an  instrument  of  tyranny. 
The  Church,  so  long  as  it  remained  a  scattered  body 
of  meek,  lowly  men,  did  the  Lord's  work.  En- 
throned at  Rome,  it  thundered  its  edicts  against 
human  thought.  The  Press  is  in  danger  of  follow- 
ing precisely  the  same  history.  When  it  wrote  in 
fear  of  the  pillory  and  of  the  jail,  it  fought  for  Lib- 
erty. Now  it  has  become  the  Fourth  Estate,  it 
fawns  —  as  Jack  Swinton  said  of  it  —  at  the  feet  of 
Mammon.  My  Proprietor,  good  fellow,  allows  me 


236  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

to  cultivate  my  plot  amid  the  wilderness  for  other 
purposes  than  those  of  quick  returns.  If  he  were 
to  become  a  competitor  with  the  Carletons  and  the 
Bloomfields,  he  would  have  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
business  proposition.  The  Devil  would  take  him 
up  on  to  the  high  mountain,  and  point  out  to  him 
the  kingdom  of  huge  circulations  and  vast  profits, 
whispering  to  him:  'All  this  will  I  give  thee,  if 
thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me.'  I  don't  want 
the  dear  good  fellow  to  be  tempted." 

"  Is  it  impossible,  then,  to  combine  duty  and  suc- 
cess? "  questioned  Joan. 

'  The  combination  sometimes  happens,  by 
chance,"  admitted  Greyson.  "  But  it's  dangerous  to 
seek  it.  It  is  so  easy  to  persuade  ourselves  that  it's 
our  duty  to  succeed." 

"  But  we  must  succeed  to  be  of  use,"  urged  Mary. 
"  Must  God's  servants  always  remain  powerless?  " 

"  Powerless  to  rule.  Powerful  only  to  serve,"  he 
answered.  "  Powerful  as  Christ  was  powerful;  not 
as  Caesar  was  powerful  —  powerful  as  those  who 
have  suffered  and  have  failed,  leaders  of  forlorn 
hopes  —  powerful  as  those  who  have  struggled  on, 
despised  and  vilified;  not  as  those  of  whom  all  men 
speak  well  —  powerful  as  those  who  have  fought 
lone  battles  and  have  died,  not  knowing  their  own  vic- 
tory. It  is  those  that  serve,  not  those  that  rule, 
shall  conquer." 

Joan  had  never  known  him  quite  so  serious.  Gen- 
erally there  was  a  touch  of  irony  in  his  talk,  a  sug- 
gestion of  aloofness  that  had  often  irritated  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  always  be  yourself,  as  you  are 
now,"  she  said,  "  and  never  pose." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  237 

"  Do  I  pose?  "  he  asked,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

'  That  shows  how  far  it  has  gone,"  she  told  him, 
"  that  you  don't  even  know  it.  You  pretend  to  be  a 
philosopher.  But  you're  really  a  man." 

He  laughed.  "  It  isn't  always  a  pose,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  It's  some  men's  way  of  saying:  Thy  will 
be  done." 

"  Ask  Phillips  to  come  and  see  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
can  be  of  more  help,  if  I  know  exactly  his  views." 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  bus.  They  passed  a 
corner  house  that  he  had  more  than  once  pointed 
out  to  her.  It  had  belonged,  years  ago,  to  a  well- 
known  artist,  who  had  worked  out  a  wonderful 
scheme  of  decoration  in  the  drawing-room.  A  board 
was  up,  announcing  that  the  house  was  for  sale.  A 
gas  lamp,  exactly  opposite,  threw  a  flood  of  light 
upon  the  huge  white  lettering. 

Joan  stopped.  "  Why,  it's  the  house  you  are 
always  talking  about,"  she  said.  "  Are  you  think- 
ing of  taking  it?  " 

"  I  did  go  over  it,"  he  answered.  "  But  it  would 
be  rather  absurd  for  just  Mary  and  me." 

She  looked  up  Phillips  at  the  House,  and  gave 
him  Greyson's  message.  He  had  just  returned  from 
Folkestone,  and  was  worried. 

"  She  was  so  much  better  last  week,"  he  explained. 
"  But  it  never  lasts. 

"  Poor  old  girl!  "  he  added.  "  I  believe  she'd 
have  been  happier  if  I'd  always  remained  plain  Bob 
Phillips." 

Joan  had  promised  to  go  down  on  the  Friday; 
but  finding,  on  the  Thursday  morning,  that  it  would 
be  difficult,  decided  to  run  down  that  afternoon  in- 


238  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

stead.  She  thought  at  first  of  sending  a  wire.  But 
in  Mrs.  Phillips's  state  of  health,  telegrams  were 
perhaps  to  be  avoided.  It  could  make  no  difference. 
The  front  door  of  the  little  house  was  standing  half 
open.  She  called  down  the  kitchen  stairs  to  the 
landlady,  but  received  no  answer.  The  woman  had 
probably  run  out  on  some  short  errand.  She  went 
up  the  stairs  softly.  The  bedroom  door,  she  knew, 
would  be  open.  Mrs.  Phillips  had  a  feeling  against 
being  "  shut  off,"  as  she  called  it.  She  meant  to  tap 
lightly  and  walk  straight  in,  as  usual.  But  what 
she  saw  through  the  opening  caused  her  to  pause. 
Mrs.  Phillips  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  her  box  of 
cosmetics  in  front  of  her.  She  was  sensitive  of  any 
one  seeing  her  make-up;  and  Joan,  knowing  this, 
drew  back  a  step.  But  for  some  reason,  she  couldn't 
help  watching.  Mrs.  Phillips  dipped  a  brush  into 
one  of  the  compartments  and  then  remained  with  it 
in  her  hand,  as  if  hesitating.  Suddenly  she  stuck 
out  her  tongue  and  passed  the  brush  over  it.  At 
least,  so  it  seemed  to  Joan.  It  was  only  a  side  view 
of  Mrs.  Phillips's  face  that  she  was  obtaining,  and 
she  may  have  been  mistaken.  It  might  have  been 
the  lips.  The  woman  gave  a  little  gasp  and  sat  still 
for  a  moment.  Then,  putting  away  the  brush,  she 
closed  the  box  and  slipped  it  under  the  pillow. 

Joan  felt  her  knees  trembling.  A  cold,  creeping 
fear  was  taking  possession  of  her.  Why,  she  could 
not  understand.  She  must  have  been  mistaken. 
People  don't  make-up  their  tongues.  It  must  have 
been  the  lips.  And  even  if  not  —  if  the  woman  had 
licked  the  brush!  It  was  a  silly  trick  people  do. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  239 

Perhaps  she  liked  the  taste.  She  pulled  herself  to- 
gether and  tapped  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Phillips  gave  a  little  start  at  seeing  her;  but 
was  glad  that  she  had  come.  Phillips  had  not  been 
down  for  two  days  and  she  had  been  feeling  lone- 
some. She  persisted  in  talking  more  than  Joan  felt 
was  good  for  her.  She  was  feeling  so  much  better, 
she  explained.  Joan  was  relieved  when  the  nurse 
came  back  from  her  walk  and  insisted  on  her  lying 
down.  She  dropped  to  sleep  while  Joan  and  the 
nurse  were  having  their  tea. 

Joan  went  back  by  the  early  train.  She  met  some 
people  at  the  station  that  she  knew  and  travelled  up 
with  them.  That  picture  of  Mrs.  Phillips's  tongue 
just  showing  beyond  the  line  of  Mrs.  Phillips's  cheek 
remained  at  the  back  of  her  mind;  but  it  was  not 
until  she  was  alone  in  her  own  rooms  that  she  dared 
let  her  thoughts  return  to  it. 

The  suggestion  that  was  forcing  itself  into  her 
brain  was  monstrous  —  unthinkable.  That,  never 
possessed  of  any  surplus  vitality,  and  suffering  from 
the  added  lassitude  of  illness,  the  woman  should  have 
become  indifferent  —  willing  to  let  a  life  that  to  her 
was  full  of  fears  and  difficulties  slip  peacefully  away 
from  her,  that  was  possible.  But  that  she  should 
exercise  thought  and  ingenuity  —  that  she  should 
have  reasoned  the  thing  out  and  deliberately  laid  her 
plans,  calculating  at  every  point  on  their  success;  it 
was  inconceivable. 

Besides,  what  could  have  put  the  idea  into  her 
head?  It  was  laughable,  the  presumption  that  she 
was  a  finished  actress,  capable  of  deceiving  every 


240  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

one  about  her.  If  she  had  had  an  inkling  of  the 
truth,  Joan,  with  every  nerve  on  the  alert,  almost 
hoping  for  it,  would  have  detected  it.  She  had 
talked  with  her  alone  the  day  before  she  had  left 
England,  and  the  woman  had  been  full  of  hopes  and 
projects  for  the  future. 

That  picture  of  Mrs.  Phillips,  propped  up  against 
the  pillows,  with  her  make-up  box  upon  her  knees 
was  still  before  her  when  she  went  to  bed.  All 
night  long  it  haunted  her:  whether  thinking  or 
dreaming  of  it,  she  could  not  tell. 

Suddenly,  she  sat  up  with  a  stifled  cry.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  flash  of  light  had  been  turned  upon  her,  al- 
most blinding  her. 

Hilda  !  Why  had  she  never  thought  of  it?  The 
whole  thing  was  so  obvious.  "  You  ought  not  to 
think  about  yourself.  You  ought  to  think  only  of 
him  and  of  his  work.  Nothing  else  matters."  If 
she  could  say  that  to  Joan,  what  might  she  not  have 
said  to  her  mother  who,  so  clearly,  she  divined  to 
be  the  incubus  —  the  drag  upon  her  father's  career? 
She  could  hear  the  child's  dry,  passionate  tones  - 
could  see  Mrs.  Phillips's  flabby  cheeks  grow  white 
—  the  frightened,  staring  eyes.  Where  her  father 
was  concerned  the  child  had  neither  conscience  nor 
compassion.  She  had  waited  her  time.  It  was  a 
few  days  after  Hilda's  return  to  school  that  Mrs. 
Phillips  had  been  first  taken  ill. 

She  flung  herself  from  the  bed  and  drew  the  blind. 
A  chill,  grey  light  penetrated  the  room.  It  was  a 
little  before  five.  She  would  go  round  to  Phillips, 
wake  him  up.  He  must  be  told. 

With  her  hat  in  her  hands,   she  paused.     No. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  241 

That  would  not  do.  Phillips  must  never  know. 
They  must  keep  the  secret  to  themselves.  She  would 
go  down  and  see  the  woman;  reason  with  her,  insist. 
She  went  into  the  other  room.  It  was  lighter 
there.  The  "  A. B.C."  was  standing  in  its  usual 
place  upon  her  desk.  There  was  a  train  to  Folke- 
stone at  six-fifteen.  She  had  plenty  of  time.  It 
would  be  wise  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  something 
to  eat.  There  would  be  no  sense  in  arriving  there 
with  a  headache.  She  would  want  her  brain  clear. 

It  was  half-past  five  when  she  sat  down  with  her 
tea  in  front  of  her.  It  was  only  ten  minutes'  walk 
to  Charing  Cross  —  say  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  She 
might  pick  up  a  cab.  She  grew  calmer  as  she  ate 
and  drank.  Her  reason  seemed  to  be  returning  to 
her.  There  was  no  such  violent  hurry.  Hadn't 
she  better  think  things  over,  in  the  clear  daylight? 
The  woman  had  been  ill  now  for  nearly  six  weeks;  a 
few  hours  —  a  day  or  two  —  could  make  no  differ- 
ence. It  might  alarm  the  poor  creature,  her  un- 
expected appearance  at  such  an  unusual  hour  — 
cause  a  relapse.  Suppose  she  had  been  mistaken? 
Hadn't  she  better  make  a  few  inquiries  first  —  feel 
her  way?  One  did  harm  more  often  than  good, 
acting  on  impulse.  After  all,  had  she  the  right  to 
interfere?  Oughtn't  the  thing  to  be  thought  over 
as  a  whole?  Mightn't  there  be  arguments,  worth 
considering,  against  her  interference?  Her  brain 
was  too  much  in  a  whirl.  Hadn't  she  better  wait 
till  she  could  collect  and  arrange  her  thoughts? 

The  silver  clock  upon  her  desk  struck  six.  It  had 
been  a  gift  from  her  father  when  she  was  at  Girton. 
It  never  obtruded.  Its  voice  was  a  faint  musical 


242  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

chime  that  she  need  not  hear  unless  she  cared  to 
listen.  She  turned  and  looked  at  it.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  little  face  looking  back  at  her  out  of  its  two 
round,  blinkless  eyes.  For  the  first  time  during  all 
the  years  that  it  had  watched  beside  her,  she  heard 
its  quick,  impatient  tick. 

She  sat  motionless,  staring  at  it.  The  problem, 
in  some  way,  had  simplified  itself  into  a  contest  be- 
tween herself,  demanding  time  to  think,  and  the  lit- 
tle insistent  clock,  shouting  to  her  to  act  upon  blind 
impulse.  If  she  could  remain  motionless  for  an- 
other five  minutes,  she  would  have  won. 

The  ticking  of  the  little  clock  was.  filling  the  room. 
The  thing  seemed  to  have  become  alive  —  to  be 
threatening  to  burst  its  heart.  But  the  thin,  deli- 
cate indicator  moved  on. 

Suddenly  its  ticking  ceased.  It  had  become  again 
a  piece  of  lifeless  mechanism.  The  hands  pointed 
to  six  minutes  past.  Joan  took  off  her  hat  and  laid 
it  aside. 

She  must  think  the  whole  thing  over  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHE  could  help  him.  Without  her,  he  would 
fail.  The  woman  herself  saw  that,  and  wished 
it.  Why  should  she  hesitate?  It  was  not  as 
if  she  had  only  herself  to  consider.  The  fate  — 
the  happiness  of  millions  was  at  stake.  He  looked 
to  her  for  aid  —  for  guidance.  It  must  have  been 
intended.  All  roads  had  led  to  it.  Her  going  to 
the  house.  She  remembered  now,  it  was  the  first 
door  at  which  she  had  knocked.  Her  footsteps  had 
surely  been  directed.  Her  meeting  with  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips in  Madge's  rooms;  and  that  invitation  to  dinner, 
coinciding  with  that  crisis  in  his  life.  It  was  she 
who  had  persuaded  him  to  accept.  But  for  her  he 
would  have  doubted,  wavered,  let  his  opportunities 
slip  by.  He  had  confessed  it  to  her. 

And  she  had  promised  him.  He  needed  her. 
The  words  she  had  spoken  to  Madge,  not  dreaming 
then  of  their  swift  application.  They  came  back  to 
her.  "  God  has  called  me.  He  has  girded  His 
sword  upon  me."  What  right  had  she  to  leave  it 
rusting  in  its  scabbard,  turning  aside  from  the  path- 
way pointed  out  to  her  because  of  one  weak,  useless 
life,  crouching  in  her  way?  It  was  not  as  if  she  were 
being  asked  to  do  evil  herself  that  good  might  come. 
The  decision  had  been  taken  out  of  her  hands.  All 
she  had  to  do  was  to  remain  quiescent,  not  interfer- 
ing, awaiting  her  orders.  Her  business  was  with 
her  pwn  part,  not  with  another's.  To  be  willing  to 

Z43 


244  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

sacrifice  oneself:  that  was  at  the  root  of  all  service. 
Sometimes  it  was  one's  own  duty,  sometimes  that 
of  another.  Must  one  never  go  forward  because 
another  steps  out  of  one's  way,  voluntarily?  Be- 
sides, she  might  have  been  mistaken.  That  picture, 
ever  before  her,  of  the  woman  pausing  with  the  brush 
above  her  tongue  —  that  little  stifled  gasp !  It  may 
have  been  but  a  phantasm,  born  of  her  own  fevered 
imagination.  She  clung  to  that,  desperately. 

It  was  the  task  that  had  been  entrusted  to  her. 
How  could  he  hope  to  succeed  without  her?  With 
her,  he  would  be  all  powerful i —  accomplish  the  end 
for  which  he  had  been  sent  into  the  world.  Society 
counts  for  so  much  in  England.  What  public  man 
had  ever  won  through  without  its  assistance?  As 
Greyson  had  said:  it  is  the  dinner-table  that  rules. 
She  could  win  it  over  to  his  side.  That  mission  to 
Paris  that  she  had  undertaken  for  Mrs.  Denton,  that 
had  brought  her  into  contact  with  diplomatists,  poli- 
ticians, the  leaders  and  the  rulers,  the  bearers  of 
names  known  and  honoured  in  history.  They  had 
accepted  her  as  one  of  themselves.  She  had  influ- 
enced them,  swayed  them.  That  afternoon  at  Folk's 
studio,  where  all  eyes  had  followed  her,  where 
famous  men  and  women  had  waited  to  attract  her 
notice,  had  hung  upon  her  words.  Even  at  school, 
at  college,  she  had  always  commanded  willing  hom- 
age. As  Greyson  had  once  told  her,  it  was  herself 
—  her  personality  that  was  her  greatest  asset.  Was 
it  to  be  utterly  wasted?  There  were  hundreds  of 
impersonal,  sexless  women,  equipped  for  nothing 
else,  with  pens  as  keen  if  not  keener  than  hers. 
That  was  not  the  talent  with  which  she  had  been 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  245 

entrusted  —  for  which  she  would  have  to  account. 
It  was  her  beauty,  her  power  to  charm,  to  draw 
after  her  —  to  compel  by  the  mere  exercise  of  her 
Will.  Hitherto  Beauty  had  been  content  to  barter 
itself  for  mere  coin  of  the  realm  —  for  ease  and 
luxury  and  pleasure.  She  only  asked  to  be  allowed 
to  spend  it  in  service.  As  his  wife,  she  could  use 
it  to  fine  ends.  By  herself  she  was  helpless.  One 
must  take  the  world  as  one  finds  it.  It  gives  the 
unmated  woman  no  opportunity  to  employ  the  special 
gifts  with  which  God  has  endowed  her  —  except  for 
evil.  As  the  wife  of  a  rising  statesman,  she  could 
be  a  force  for  progress.  She  could  become  another 
Madame  Roland;  gather  round  her  all  that  was  best 
of  English  social  life;  give  back  to  it  its  lost  position 
in  the  vanguard  of  thought. 

She  could  strengthen  him,  give  him  courage. 
Without  her,  he  would  always  remain  the  mere 
fighter,  doubtful  of  himself.  The  confidence,  the 
inspiration,  necessary  for  leadership,  she  alone  could 
bring  to  him.  Each  by  themselves  was  incomplete. 
Together,  they  would  be  the  whole.  They  would 
build  the  city  of  their  dreams. 

She  seemed  to  have  become  a  wandering  spirit 
rather  than  a  living  being.  She  had  no  sense  of 
time  or  place.  Once  she  had  started,  hearing  her- 
self laugh.  She  was  seated  at  a  table,  and  was  talk- 
ing. And  then  she  had  passed  back  into  forgetful- 
ness.  Now,  from  somewhere,  she  was  gazing  down- 
ward. Roofs,  domes  and  towers  lay  stretched  be- 
fore her,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  shadows.  She  held 
out  her  arms  towards  them  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes.  The  poor  tired  people  were  calling  to  her  to 


246  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

join  with  him  to  help  them.  Should  she  fail  them 
—  turn  deaf  ears  to  the  myriad  because  of  pity  for 
one  useless,  feeble  life? 

She  had  been  fashioned  to  be  his  helpmate,  as 
surely  as  if  she  had  been  made  of  the  same  bone. 
Nature  was  at  one  with  God.  Spirit  and  body  both 
yearned  for  him.  It  was  not  position  —  power  for 
herself  that  she  craved.  The  marriage  market  —  if 
that  had  been  her  desire :  it  had  always  been  open  to 
her.  She  had  the  gold  that  buys  these  things. 
Wealth,  ambition:  they  had  been  offered  to  her  — 
spread  out  temptingly  before  her  eyes.  They  were 
always  within  her  means,  if  ever  she  chose  to  pur- 
chase them.  It  was  this  man  alone  to  whom  she 
had  ever  felt  drawn  —  this  man  of  the  people,  with 
that  suggestion  about  him  of  something  primitive, 
untamed,  causing  her  always  in  his  presence  that 
faint,  compelling  thrill  of  fear,  who  stirred  her  blood 
as  none  of  the  polished  men  of  her  own  class  had 
ever  done.  His  kind,  strong,  ugly  face:  it  moved 
beside  her:  its  fearless,  tender  eyes  now  pleading, 
now  commanding. 

He  needed  her.  She  heard  his  passionate,  low 
voice,  as  she  had  heard  it  in  the  little  garden  above 
Meudon:  "  Because  you  won't  be  there;  and  without 
you  I  can  do  nothing."  What  right  had  this  poor, 
worn-out  shadow  to  stand  between  them,  to  the  end? 
Had  love  and  life  no  claims,  but  only  weakness? 
She  had  taken  all,  had  given  nothing.  It  was  but 
reparation  she  was  making.  Why  stop  her? 

She  was  alone  in  a  maze  of  narrow,  silent  streets 
that  ended  always  in  a  high  blank  wall.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  get  away  from  this  blank  wall.  What- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  247 

ever  way  she  turned  she  was  always  coming  back 
to  it. 

What  was  she  to  do?  Drag  the  woman  back  to 
life  against  her  will  —  lead  her  back  to  him  to  be  a 
chain  about  his  feet  until  the  end?  Then  leave  him 
to  fight  the  battle  alone? 

And  herself?  All  her  world  had  been  watching 
and  would  know.  She  had  counted  her  chickens  be- 
fore they  were  dead.  She  had  set  her  cap  at  the 
man,  reckoning  him  already  widowed;  and  his  wife 
had  come  to  life  and  snatched  it  from  her  head. 
She  could  hear  the  laughter  —  the  half  amused,  half 
contemptuous  pity  for  her  "  rotten  bad  luck."  She 
would  be  their  standing  jest,  till  she  was  forgotten. 

What  would  life  leave  to  her?  A  lonely  lodging 
and  a  pot  of  ink  that  she  would  come  to  hate  the 
smell  of.  She  could  never  marry.  It  would  be  but 
her  body  that  she  could  give  to  any  other  man.  Not 
even  for  the  sake  of  her  dreams  could  she  bring  her- 
self to  that.  It  might  have  been  possible  before, 
but  not  now.  She  could  have  won  the  victory  over 
herself,  but  for  hope,  that  had  kindled  the  smoulder- 
ing embers  of  her  passion  into  flame.  What  cun- 
ning devil  had  flung  open  this  door,  showing  her  all 
her  heart's  desire,  merely  that  she  should  be  called 
upon  to  slam  it  to  in  her  own  face? 

A  fierce  anger  blazed  up  in  her  brain.  Why 
should  she  listen?  Why  had  reason  been  given  to 
us  if  we  were  not  to  use  it  —  weigh  good  and  evil 
in  the  balance  and  decide  for  ourselves  where  lay 
the  nobler  gain?  Were  we  to  be  led  hither  and 
thither  like  blind  children?  What  was  right  — 
what  wrong,  but  what  our  own  God-given  judgment 


248  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

told  us?  Was  it  wrong  of  the  woman  to  perform 
this  act  of  self-renunciation,  yielding  up  all  things 
to  love?  No,  it  was  great  —  heroic  of  her.  It 
would  be  her  cross  of  victory,  her  crown. 

If  the  gift  were  noble,  so  also  it  could  not  be 
ignoble  to  accept  it. 

To  reject  it  would  be  to  dishonour  it. 

She  would  accept  it.  The  wonder  of  it  should 
cast  out  her  doubts  and  fears.  She  would  seek  to 
make  herself  worthy  of  it.  Consecrate  it  with  her 
steadfastness,  her  devotion. 

She  thought  it  ended.  But  yet  she  sat  there  mo- 
tionless. 

What  was  plucking  at  her  sleeve  —  still  holding 
her? 

Unknowing,  she  had  entered  a  small  garden.  It 
formed  a  passage  between  two  streets,  and  was  left 
open  day  and  night.  It  was  but  a  narrow  strip  of 
rank  grass  and  withered  shrubs  with  an  asphalt 
pathway  widening  to  a  circle  in  the  centre,  where 
stood  a  gas  lamp  and  two  seats,  facing  one  another. 

And  suddenly  it  came  to  her  that  this  was  her 
Garden  of  Gethsemane ;  and  a  dull  laugh  broke  from 
her  that  she  could  not  help.  It  was  such  a  ridiculous 
apology  for  Gethsemane.  There  was  not  a  corner 
in  which  one  could  possibly  pray.  Only  these  two 
iron  seats,  one  each  side  of  the  gaunt  gas  lamp  that 
glared  down  upon  them.  Even  the  withered  shrubs 
were  fenced  off  behind  a  railing.  A  ragged  figure 
sprawled  upon  the  bench  opposite  to  her.  It  snored 
gently,  and  its  breath  came  laden  with  the  odour  of 
cheap  whisky. 

But  it  was  her  Gethsemane :  the  best  that  Fate 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  249 

had  been  able  to  do  for  her.  It  was  here  that  her 
choice  would  be  made.  She  felt  that. 

And  there  rose  before  her  the  vision  of  that  other 
Garden  of  Gethsemane  with,  below  it,  the  soft  lights 
of  the  city  shining  through  the  trees;  and  above,  clear 
against  the  star-lit  sky,  the  cold,  dark  cross. 

It  was  only  a  little  cross,  hers,  by  comparison. 
She  could  see  that.  They  seemed  to  be  standing 
side  by  side.  But  then  she  was  only  a  woman  — 
little  more  than  a  girl.  And  her  courage  was  so 
small.  She  thought  He  ought  to  know  that.  For 
her  it  was  quite  a  big  cross.  She  wondered  if  He 
had  been  listening  to  all  her  arguments.  There  was 
really  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  some  of  them.  Per- 
haps He  would  understand.  Not  all  this  prayer 
had  come  down  to  us.  He,  too,  had  put  up  a  fight 
for  life.  He,  too,  was  young.  For  Him,  also,  life 
must  have  seemed  but  just  beginning.  Perhaps  He, 
too,  had  felt  that  His  duty  still  lay  among  the  people 
—  teaching,  guiding,  healing  them.  To  Him,  too, 
life  must  have  been  sweet  with  its  noble  work,  its 
loving  comradeship.  Even  from  Him  the  words 
had  to  be  wrung:  "  Thy  will,  not  Mine,  be  done." 

She  whispered  them  at  last.  Not  bravely,  at  all. 
Feebly,  haltingly,  with  a  little  sob:  her  forehead 
pressed  against  the  cold  iron  seat,  as  if  that  could 
help  her. 

She  thought  that  even  then  God  might  reconsider 
it  —  see  her  point  of  view.  Perhaps  He  would  send 
her  a  sign. 

The  ragged  figure  on  the  bench  opposite  opened 
its  eyes,  stared  at  her,  then  went  to  sleep  again.  A 
prowling  cat  paused  to  rub  itself  against  her  foot, 


250  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

but  meeting  no  response,  passed  on.  Through  an 
open  window,  somewhere  near,  filtered  the  sound 
of  a  child's  low  whimpering. 

It  was  daylight  when  she  awoke.  She  was  cold 
and  her  limbs  ached.  Slowly  her  senses  came  back 
to  her.  The  seat  opposite  was  vacant.  The  gas 
lamp  showed  but  a  faint  blue  point  of  flame.  Her 
dress  was  torn,  her  boots  soiled  and  muddy. 
Strands  of  her  hair  had  escaped  from  underneath  her 
hat. 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  Fortunately  it  was 
still  early.  She  would  be  able  to  let  herself  in  be- 
fore any  one  was  up.  It  was  but  a  little  way.  She 
wondered,  while  rearranging  her  hair,  what  day  it 
was.  She  would  find  out,  when  she  got  home,  from 
the  newspaper. 

In  the  street  she  paused  a  moment  and  looked 
back  through  the  railings.  It  seemed  even  still  more 
sordid  in  the  daylight :  the  sooty  grass  and  the  with- 
ered shrubs  and  the  asphalt  pathway  strewn  with 
dirty  paper.  And  again  a  laugh  she  could  not  help 
broke  from  her.  Her  Garden  of  Gethsemane ! 

She  sent  a  brief  letter  round  to  Phillips,  and  a 
telegram  to  the  nurse,  preparing  them  for  what  she 
meant  to  do.  She  had  just  time  to  pack  a  small 
trunk  and  catch  the  morning  train.  At  Folkestone, 
she  drove  first  to  a  house  where  she  herself  had  once 
lodged  and  fixed  things  to  her  satisfaction.  The 
nurse  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  downstairs  room, 
and  opened  the  door  to  her.  She  was  opposed  to 
Joan's  interference.  But  Joan  had  come  prepared 
for  that.  "  Let  me  have  a  talk  with  her,"  she  said. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  251 

"  I  think  I've  found  out  what  it  is  that  is  causing  all 
the  trouble." 

The  nurse  shot  her  a  swift  glance.  "  I'm  glad  of 
that,"  she  said  dryly.  She  let  Joan  go  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Phillips  was  asleep.  Joan  seated  herself 
beside  the  bed  and  waited.  She  had  not  yet  made 
herself  up  for  the  day  and  the  dyed  hair  was  hidden 
beneath  a  white,  close-fitting  cap.  The  pale,  thin 
face  with  its  closed  eyes  looked  strangely  young. 
Suddenly  the  thin  hands  clasped,  and  her  lips  moved, 
as  if  she  were  praying  in  her  sleep.  Perhaps  she 
also  was  dreaming  of  Gethsemane.  It  must  be  quite 
a  crowded  garden,  if  only  we  could  see  it. 

After  a  while,  her  eyes  opened.  Joan  drew  her 
chair  nearer  and  slipped  her  arm  in  under  her,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"  You're  not  playing  the  game,"  whispered  Joan, 
shaking  her  head.  "  I  only  promised  on  condition 
that  you  would  try  to  get  well." 

The  woman  made  no  attempt  to  deny.  Some- 
thing told  her  that  Joan  had  learned  her  secret. 
She  glanced  towards  the  door.  Joan  had  closed  it. 

"  Don't  drag  me  back,"  she  whispered.  "  It's  all 
finished."  She  raised  herself  up  and  put  her  arms 
about  loan's  neck.  "  It  was  hard  at  first,  and  I 
hated  you.  And  then  it  came  to  me  that  this  was 
what  I  had  been  wanting  to  do,  all  my  life  —  some- 
thing to  help  him,  that  nobody  else  could  do.  Don't 
take  it  from  me." 

"  I  know,"  whispered  Joan.  "  I've  been  there, 
too.  I  knew  you  were  doing  it,  though  I  didn't 
quite  know  how  —  till  the  other  day.  I  wouldn't 


252  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

think.  I  wanted  to  pretend  that  I  didn't.  I  know 
all  you  can  say.  I've  been  listening  to  it.  It  was 
right  of  you  to  want  to  give  it  all  up  to  me  for  his 
sake.  But  it  would  be  wrong  of  me  to  take  it.  I 
don't  quite  see  why.  I  can't  explain  it.  But  I 
mustn't.  So  you  see  it  would  be  no  good." 

"  But  I'm  so  useless,"  pleaded  the  woman. 

"  I  said  that,"  answered  Joan.  "  I  wanted  to  do 
it;  and  I  talked  and  talked,  so  hard.  I  said  every- 
thing I  could  think  of.  But  that  was  the  only  an- 
swer: I  mustn't  do  it." 

They  remained  for  a  while  with  their  arms  round 
one  another.  It  struck  Joan  as  curious,  even  at  the 
time,  that  all  feeling  of  superiority  had  gone  out  of 
her.  They  might  have  been  two  puzzled  children 
that  had  met  one  another  on  a  path  that  neither 
knew.  But  Joan  was  the  stronger  character. 

"  I  want  you  to  give  me  up  that  box,"  she  said, 
"  and  to  come  away  with  me  where  I  can  be  with 
you  and  take  care  of  you  until  you  are  well." 

Mrs.  Phillips  made  yet  another  effort.  "  Have 
you  thought  about  him?"  she  asked. 

Joan  answered  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Oh,  yes," 
she  said.  "  I  didn't  forget  that  argument  in  case 
it  hadn't  occurred  to  the  Lord. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  added,  "  the  helpmate  theory  was 
intended  to  apply  only  to  our  bodies.  There  was 
nothing  said  about  our  souls.  Perhaps  God  doesn't 
have  to  work  in  pairs.  Perhaps  we  were  meant  to 
stand  alone." 

Mrs.  Phillips's  thin  hands  were  playing  nervously 
with  the  bed  clothes.  There  still  seemed  something 
that  she  had  to  say.  As  if  Joan  hadn't  thought  of 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  253 

everything.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  narrow 
strip  of  light  between  the  window  curtains. 

"  You  don't  think  you  could,  dear,"  she  whispered, 
"  if  I  didn't  do  anything  wicked  any  more.  But 
just  let  things  take  their  course. 

"  You  see,  dear,"  she  went  on,  her  face  still  turned 
away,  "  I  thought  it  all  finished.  It  will  be  hard  for 
me  to  go  back  to  him,  knowing  as  I  do  now  that  he 
doesn't  want  me.  I  shall  always  feel  that  I  am  in 
his  way.  And  Hilda,"  she  added  after  a  pause, 
"  she  will  hate  me." 

Joan  looked  at  the  white  patient  face  and  was 
silent.  What  would  be  the  use  of  senseless  contra- 
diction? The  woman  knew.  It  would  only  seem  an 
added  stab  of  mockery.  She  knelt  beside  the  bed, 
and  took  the  thin  hands  in  hers. 

"  I  think  God  must  want  you  very  badly,"  she 
said,  "  or  He  wouldn't  have  laid  so  heavy  a  cross 
upon  you.  You  will  come?  " 

The  woman  did  not  answer  in  words.  The  big 
tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  There  was  no 
paint  to  mingle  with  and  mar  them.  She  drew  the 
little  metal  box  from  under  the  pillow  and  gave  it 
into  Joan's  hands. 

Joan  crept  out  softly  from  the  room. 

The  nurse  was  standing  by  the  window.  She 
turned  sharply  on  Joan's  entrance.  Joan  slipped  the 
box  into  her  hands. 

The  nurse  raised  the  lid.  "  What  a  fool  I've 
been,"  she  said.  "  I  never  thought  of  that." 

She  held  out  a  large  strong  hand  and  gave  Joan  a 
longish  grip.  "  You're  right,"  she  said,  "  we  must 
get  her  out  of  this  house  at  once.  Forgive  me." 


254  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Phillips  had  been  called  up  north  and  wired  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  get  down  till  the  Wednesday 
evening.  Joan  met  him  at  the  station. 

"  She  won't  be  expecting  you,  just  yet,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  We  might  have  a  little  walk." 

She  waited  till  they  had  reached  a  quiet  road  lead- 
ing to  the  hills. 

"  You  will  find  her  changed,"  she  said.  "  Men- 
tally, I  mean.  Though  she  will  try  not  to  show  it. 
She  was  dying  for  your  sake  —  to  set  you  free. 
Hilda  seems  to  have  had  a  talk  with  her  and  to  have 
spared  her  no  part  of  the  truth.  Her  great  love 
for  you  made  the  sacrifice  possible  and  even  welcome. 
It  was  the  one  gift  she  had  in  her  hands.  She  was 
giving  it  gladly,  proudly.  So  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned, it  would  have  been  kinder  to  let  her  make 
an  end  of  it.  But  during  the  last  few  days  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  there  is  a  law  within  us  that 
we  may  not  argue  with.  She  is  coming  back  to  life, 
knowing  you  no  longer  want  her,  that  she  is  only  in 
the  way.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  think  of  some- 
thing to  say  or  do  that  will  lessen  her  martyrdom. 
I  can't." 

They  had  paused  where  a  group  of  trees  threw  a 
blot  of  shadow  across  the  moonlit  road. 

"  You  mean  she  was  killing  herself?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quite  cleverly.  So  as  to  avoid  all  danger  of 
after  discovery:  that  might  have  hurt  us,"  she  an- 
swered. 

They  walked  in  silence,  and  coming  to  a  road  that 
led  back  into  the  town,  he  turned  down  it.  She 
had  the  feeling  she  was  following  him  without  his 
knowing  it.  A  cab  was  standing  outside  the  gate 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  255 

of  a  house,  having  just  discharged  its  fare.     He 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  recollected  her. 

"  Do  you  mind?  "  he  said.  "  We  shall  get  there 
so  much  quicker." 

'  You  go,"  she  said.     "  I'll  stroll  on  quietly." 
'  You're  sure?  "  he  said. 

"  I  would  rather,"  she  answered. 

It  struck  her  that  he  was  relieved.  He  gave  the 
man  the  address,  speaking  hurriedly,  and  jumped  in. 

She  had  gone  on.  She  heard  the  closing  of  the 
door  behind  her,  and  the  next  moment  the  cab  passed 
her. 

She  did  not  see  him  again  that  night.  They  met 
in  the  morning  at  breakfast.  A  curious  strangeness 
to  each  other  seemed  to  have  grown  up  between 
them,  as  if  they  had  known  one  another  long  ago, 
and  had  half  forgotten.  When  they  had  finished 
she  rose  to  leave ;  but  he  asked  her  to  stop,  and,  after 
the  table  had  been  cleared,  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  while  she  sat  sideways  on  the  window  seat 
from  where  she  could  watch  the  little  ships  moving 
to  and  fro  across  the  horizon,  like  painted  figures  in 
a  show. 

"  I  had  a  long  talk  with  Nan  last  night,"  he  said. 
"  And,  trying  to  explain  it  to  her,  I  came  a  little 
nearer  to  understanding  it  myself.  My  love  for  you 
would  have  been  strong  enough  to  ruin  both  of  us. 
I  see  that  now.  It  would  have  dominated  every 
other  thought  in  me.  It  would  have  swallowed  up 
my  dreams.  It  would  have  been  blind,  unscrupu- 
lous. Married  to  you,  I  should  have  aimed  only  at 
success.  It  would  not  have  been  your  fault.  You 
would  not  have  known.  About  mere  birth  I  should 


256  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

never  have  troubled  myself.  I've  met  daughters 
of  a  hundred  earls  —  more  or  less:  clever,  jolly 
little  women  I  could  have  chucked  under  the  chin  and 
have  be"en  chummy  with.  Nature  creates  her  own 
ranks,  and  puts  her  ban  upon  misalliances.  Every 
time  I  took  you  in  my  arms  I  should  have  felt  that 
you  had  stepped  down  from  your  proper  order  to 
mate  yourself  with  me  and  that  it  was  up  to  me  to 
make  the  sacrifice  good  to  you  by  giving  you  power 
—  position.  Already  within  the  last  few  weeks, 
when  it  looked  as  if  this  thing  was  going  to  be  possi- 
ble, I  have  been  thinking  against  my  will  of  a  compro- 
mise with  Carleton  that  would  give  me  his  support. 
This  coming  election  was  beginning  to  have  terrors 
for  me  that  I  have  never  before  felt.  The  thought 
of  defeat  —  of  having  to  go  back  to  comparative 
poverty,  to  comparative  obscurity,  with  you  as  my 
wife,  was  growing  into  a  nightmare.  I  should  have 
wanted  wealth,  fame,  victory,  for  your  sake  —  to 
see  you  honoured,  courted,  envied,  finely  dressed  and 
finely  housed  —  grateful  to  me  for  having  won  for 
you  these  things.  It  wasn't  honest,  healthy  love  — 
the  love  that  unites,  that  makes  a  man  willing  to  take 
as  well  as  to  give,  that  I  felt  for  you ;  it  was  worship 
that  separates  a  man  from  a  woman,  that  puts  fear 
between  them.  It  isn't  good  that  man  should  wor- 
ship a  woman.  He  can't  serve  God  and  woman. 
Their  interests  are  liable  to  clash.  Nan's  my  help- 
mate —  just  a  loving  woman  that  the  Lord  brought 
to  me  and  gave  me  when  I  was  alone  —  that  I  still 
love.  I  didn't  know  it  till  last  night.  She  will  never 
stand  in  my  way.  I  haven't  to  put  her  against  my 
duty.  She  will  leave  me  free  to  obey  the  voice  that 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  257 

calls  to  me.  And  no  man  can  hear  that  voice  but 
himself." 

He  had  been  speaking  in  a  clear,  self-confident 
tone,  as  if  at  last  he  saw  his  road  before  him  to  the 
end;  and  felt  that  nothing  else  mattered  but  that 
he  should  go  forward  hopefully,  unfalteringly. 
Now  he  paused,  and  his  eyes  wandered.  But  the 
lines  about  his  strong  mouth  deepened. 

"  Perhaps,  I  am  not  of  the  stuff  that  conquerors 
are  made,"  he  went  on.  "  Perhaps,  if  I  were,  I 
should  be  thinking  differently.  It  comes  to  me 
sometimes  that  I  may  be  one  of  those  intended  only 
to  prepare  the  way  —  that  for  me  there  may  be  only 
the  endless  struggle.  I  may  have  to  face  unpopu- 
larity, abuse,  failure.  She  won't  mind. 

"  Nor  would  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  her  sud- 
denly for  the  first  time,  "  I  know  that.  But  I  should 
be  afraid  —  for  you." 

She  had  listened  to  him  without  interrupting,  and 
even  now  she  did  not  speak  for  a  while. 

It  was  hard  not  to.  She  wanted  to  tell  him  that 
he  was  all  wrong  —  at  least,  so  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned. It  was  not  the  conqueror  she  loved  in  him; 
it  was  the  fighter.  Not  in  the  hour  of  triumph  but 
in  the  hour  of  despair  she  would  have  yearned  to  put 
her  arms  about  him.  "  Unpopularity,  abuse,  fail- 
ure," it  was  against  the  fear  of  such  that  she  would 
have  guarded  him.  Yes,  she  had  dreamed  of  leader- 
ship, influence,  command.  But  it  was  the  leadership 
of  the  valiant  few  against  the  hosts  of  the  oppressors 
that  she  claimed.  Wealth,  honours !  Would  she 
have  given  up  a  life  of  ease,  shut  herself  off  from 
society,  if  these  had  been  her  standards?  "  Mesal- 


258  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

liance!  "  Had  the  male  animal  no  instinct,  telling 
it  when  it  was  loved  with  all  a  woman's  being,  so 
that  any  other  union  would  be  her  degradation? 

It  was  better  for  him  he  should  think  as  he  did. 
She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  will  stay  with  her  for  a  little  while,"  she  said. 
"  Till  I  feel  there  is  no  more  need.  Then  I  must 
get  back  to  work." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  holding  her  hand,  and 
she  felt  his  body  trembling.  She  knew  he  was  about 
to  speak,  and  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

"  That's  all,  my  lad,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 
"  My  love  to  you,  and  God  speed  you." 

Mrs.  Phillips  progressed  slowly  but  steadily. 
Life  was  returning  to  her,  but  it  was  not  the  same. 
Out  of  those  days  there  had  come  to  her  a  gentle 
dignity,  a  strengthening  and  refining.  The  face,  now 
pale  and  drawn,  had  lost  its  foolishness.  Under 
the  thin,  white  hair,  and  in  spite  of  its  deep  lines,  it 
had  grown  younger.  A  great  patience,  a  child-like 
thoughtfulness  had  come  into  the  quiet  eyes. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  window,  her  hands  folded. 
Joan  had  been  reading  to  her,  and  the  chapter  fin- 
ished, she  had  closed  the  book  and  her  thoughts  had 
been  wandering.  Mrs.  Phillips's  voice  recalled 
them. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  day,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  when  we  went  furnishing  together?  And  I  would 
have  all  the  wrong  things.  And  you  let  me." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Joan  with  a  laugh.  "  They  were 
pretty  awful,  some  of  them." 

"  I  was  just  wondering,"  she  went  on.  "  It  was 
pity,  wasn't  it?  I  was  silly  and  began  to  cry." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  259 

"  I  expect  that  was  it,"  Joan  confessed.  "  It  in- 
terferes with  our  reason  at  times." 

"  It  was  only  a  little  thing,  of  course,  that,"  she 
answered.  "  But  I've  been  thinking  it  must  be  that 
that's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all;  and  that  is  why  God 
lets  there  be  weak  things  —  children  and  little  ani- 
mals and  men  and  women  in  pain,  that  we  feel  sorry 
for,  so  that  people  like  you  and  Robert  and  so  many 
others  are  willing  to  give  up  all  your  lives  to  helping 
them.  And  that  is  what  He  wants." 

"  Perhaps  God  cannot  help  there  being  weak 
things,"  answered  Joan.  "  Perhaps  He,  too,  is 
sorry  for  them." 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing,  doesn't  it,  dear?" 
she  answered.  "  They  are  there,  anyhow.  And 
that  is  how  He  knows  those  who  are  willing  to  serve 
Him:  by  their  being  pitiful." 

They  fell  into  a  silence.  Joan  found  herself 
dreaming. 

Yes,  it  was  true.  It  must  have  been  the  beginning 
of  all  things.  Man,  pitiless,  deaf,  blind,  groping  in 
the  darkness,  knowing  not  even  himself.  And  to 
her  vision,  far  off,  out  of  the  mist,  he  shaped  him- 
self before  her:  that  dim,  first  standard-bearer  of 
the  Lord,  the  man  who  first  felt  pity.  Savage, 
brutish,  dumb  —  lonely  there  amid  the  desolation, 
staring  down  at  some  hurt  creature,  man  or  beast 
it  mattered  not,  his  dull  eyes  troubled  with  a  strange 
new  pain  he  understood  not. 

And  suddenly,  as  he  stooped,  there  must  have 
come  a  great  light  into  his  eyes. 

Man  had  heard  God's  voice  across  the  deep,  and 
had  made  answer. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  years  that  followed  —  till,  like  some  ship- 
wrecked swimmer  to  whom  returning  light 
reveals  the  land,  she  felt  new  life  and  hopes  come 
back  to  her  —  always  remained  in  her  memory 
vague,  confused;  a  jumble  of  events,  thoughts,  feel- 
ings, without  sequence  or  connection. 

She  had  gone  down  to  Liverpool,  intending  to  per- 
suade her  father  to  leave  the  control  of  the  works 
to  Arthur,  and  to  come  and  live  with  her  in  London ; 
but  had  left  without  broaching  the  subject.  There 
were  nights  when  she  would  trapse  the  streets  till 
she  would  almost  fall  exhausted,  rather  than  face 
the  solitude  awaiting  her  in  her  own  rooms.  But  so 
also  there  were  moods  when,  like  some  stricken  ani- 
mal, her  instinct  was  to  shun  all  living  things.  At 
such  times  his  presence,  for  all  his  loving  patience, 
would  have  been  as  a  knife  in  her  wound.  Besides, 
he  would  always  be  there,  when  escape  from  herself 
for  a  while  became  an  absolute  necessity.  More 
and  more  she  had  come  to  regard  him  as  her  com- 
forter. Not  from  anything  he  ever  said  or  did. 
Rather,  it  seemed  to  her,  because  that  with  him  she 
felt  no  need  of  words. 

The  works,  since  Arthur  had  shared  the  manage- 
ment, had  gradually  been  regaining  their  position; 
and  he  had  urged  her  to  let  him  increase  her  allow- 
ance. 

"  It  will  give  you  greater  freedom,"  he  had  sug- 

260 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  261 

gested  with  fine  assumption  of  propounding  a  mere 
business  proposition;  "  enabling  you  to  choose  your 
work  entirely  for  its  own  sake.  I  have  always 
wanted  to  take  a  hand  in  helping  things  on.  It  will 
come  to  just  the  same,  your  doing  it  for  me." 

She  had  suppressed  a  smile,  and  had  accepted. 
4  Thanks,  Dad,"  she  had  answered.  "  It  will  be 
nice,  having  you  as  my  backer." 

Her  admiration  of  the  independent  woman  had 
undergone  some  modification  since  she  had  come  in 
contact  with  her.  Woman  was  intended  to  be  de- 
pendent upon  man.  It  was  the  part  appointed  to 
him  in  the  social  scheme.  Woman  had  hers,  no  less 
important.  Earning  her  own  living  did  not  improve 
her.  It  was  one  of  the  drawbacks  of  civilization 
that  so  many  had  to  do  it  of  necessity.  It  developed 
her  on  the  wrong  lines  —  against  her  nature.  This 
cry  of  the  unsexed:  that  woman  must  always  be  the 
paid  servant  instead  of  the  helper  of  man  —  paid 
for  being  mother,  paid  for  being  wife !  Why  not 
carry  it  to  its  logical  conclusion,  and  insist  that  she 
should  be  paid  for  her  embraces?  That  she  should 
share  in  man's  labour,  in  his  hopes,  that  was  the 
true  comradeship.  What  mattered  it,  who  held  the 
purse-strings ! 

Her  room  was  always  kept  ready  for  her.  Often 
she  would  lie  there,  watching  the  moonlight  creep 
across  the  floor;  and  a  curious  feeling  would  come  to 
her  of  being  something  wandering,  incomplete.  She 
would  see  as  through  a  mist  the  passionate,  restless 
child  with  the  rebellious  eyes  to  whom  the  room  had 
once  belonged;  and  later  the  strangely  self-possessed 
girl  with  that  impalpable  veil  of  mystery  around  her 


262  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

who  would  stand  with  folded  hands,  there  by  the 
window,  seeming  always  to  be  listening.  And  she, 
too,  had  passed  away.  The  tears  would  come  into 
her  eyes,  and  she  would  stretch  out  yearning  arms 
towards  their  shadowy  forms.  But  they  woulcl  only 
turn  upon  her  eyes  that  saw  not,  and  would  fade 
away. 

In  the  day-time,  when  Arthur  and  her  father  were 
at  the  works,  she  would  move  through  the  high, 
square,  stiffly-furnished  rooms,  or  about  the  great 
formal  garden,  with  its  ordered  walks  and  level 
lawns.  And  as  with  knowledge  we  come  to  love 
some  old,  stern  face  our  childish  eyes  had  thought 
forbidding,  and  would  not  have  it  changed,  there 
came  to  her  with  the  years  a  growing  fondness  for 
the  old,  plain  brick-built  house.  Generations  of  All- 
ways  had  lived  and  died  there:  men  and  women 
somewhat  narrow,  unsympathetic,  a  little  hard  of 
understanding;  but  at  least  earnest,  sincere,  seeking 
to  do  their  duty  in  their  solid,  unimaginative  way. 
Perhaps  there  were  other  ways  besides  those  of 
speech  and  pen.  Perhaps  one  did  better,  keeping 
to  one's  own  people;  the  very  qualities  that  separated 
us  from  them  being  intended  for  their  need.  What 
mattered  the  colours,  so  that  one  followed  the  flag? 
Somewhere,  all  roads  would  meet. 

Arthur  had  to  be  in  London  generally  once  or 
twice  a  month,  and  it  came  to  be  accepted  that  he 
should  always  call  upon  her  and  "  take  her  out." 
She  had  lost  the  self-sufficiency  that  had  made  roam- 
ing about  London  by  herself  a  pleasurable  adventure ; 
and  a  newly-born  fear  of  what  people  were  saying 
and  thinking  about  her  made  her  shy  even  of  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  263 

few  friends  she  still  clung  to,  so  that  his  visits  grew 
to  be  of  the  nature  of  childish  treats  to  which  she 
found  herself  looking  forward  —  counting  the  days. 
Also,  she  came  to  be  dependent  upon  him  for  the 
keeping  alight  within  her  of  that  little  kindly  fire 
of  self-conceit  at  which  we  warm  our  hands  in  wintry 
days.  It  is  not  good  that  a  young  woman  should 
remain  for  long  a  stranger  to  her  mirror  —  above 
her  frocks,  indifferent  to  the  angle  of  her  hat.  She 
had  met  the  women  superior  to  feminine  vanities. 
Handsome  enough,  some  of  them  must  once  have 
been;  now  sunk  in  slovenliness,  uncleanliness,  in  dis- 
respect to  womanhood.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  him. 
The  worshipper  has  his  rights.  The  goddess  must 
remember  always  that  she  is  a  goddess  —  must  pull 
herself  together  and  behave  as  such,  appearing  upon 
her  pedestal  becomingly  attired;  seeing  to  it  that  in 
all  things  she  is  at  her  best;  not  allowing  private 
grief  to  render  her  neglectful  of  this  duty. 

She  had  not  told  him  of  the  Phillips  episode.  But 
she  felt  instinctively  that  he  knew.  It  was  always  a 
little  mysterious  to  her,  his  perception  in  matters  per- 
taining to  herself. 

"  I  want  your  love,"  she  said  to  him  one  day. 
"  It  helps  me.  I  used  to  think  it  was  selfish  of  me 
to  take  it,  knowing  I  could  never  return  it  —  not 
that  love.  But  I  no  longer  feel  that  now.  Your 
love  seems  to  me  a  fountain  from  which  I  can  drink 
without  hurting  you." 

"  I  should  love  to  be  with  you  always,"  he  an- 
swered, "  if  you  wished  it.  You  won't  forget  your 
promise?  " 

She  remembered  it  then.     "  No,"  she  answered 


264  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

with  a  smile.  "  I  shall  keep  watch.  Perhaps  I 
shall  be  worthy  of  it  by  that  time." 

She  had  lost  her  faith  in  journalism  as  a  drum 
for  the  rousing  of  the  people  against  wrong.  Its 
beat  had  led  too  often  to  the  trickster's  booth,  to 
the  cheap-jack's  rostrum.  It  had  lost  its  rallying 
power.  The  popular  Press  had  made  the  news- 
paper a  byword  for  falsehood.  Even  its  sup- 
porters, while  reading  it  because  it  pandered  to  their 
passions,  tickled  their  vices,  and  flattered  their  ignor- 
ance, despised  and  disbelieved  it.  Here  and  there, 
an  honest  journal  advocated  a  reform,  pleaded  for 
the  sweeping  away  of  an  injustice.  The  public 
shrugged  its  shoulders.  Another  newspaper  stunt! 
A  bid  for  popularity,  for  notoriety:  with  its  conse- 
quent financial  kudos. 

She  still  continued  to  write  for  Greyson,  but  felt 
she  was  labouring  for  the  doomed.  Lord  Sutcliffe 
had  died  suddenly  and  his  holding  in  the  Evening 
Gazette  had  passed  to  his  nephew,  a  gentleman 
more  interested  in  big  game  shooting  than  in  poli- 
tics. Greyson's  support  of  Phillips  had  brought 
him  within  the  net  of  Carleton's  operations,  and 
negotiations  for  purchase  had  already  been  com- 
menced. She  knew  that,  sooner  or  later,  Greyson 
would  be  offered  the  alternative  of  either  changing 
his  opinions  or  of  going.  And  she  knew  that  he 
would  go.  Her  work  for  Mrs.  Denton  was  less 
likely  to  be  interfered  with.  It  appealed  only  to 
the  few,  and  aimed  at  informing  and  explaining 
rather  than  directly  converting.  Useful  enough 
work  in  its  way,  no  doubt;  but  to  put  heart  into  it 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  265 

seemed  to  require  longer  views  than  is  given  to  the 
eyes  of  youth. 

Besides,  her  pen  was  no  longer  able  to  absorb  her 
attention,  to  keep  her  mind  from  wandering.  The 
solitude  of  her  desk  gave  her  the  feeling  of  a  prison. 
Her  body  made  perpetual  claims  upon  her,  as 
though  it  were  some  restless,  fretful  child,  drag- 
ging her  out  into  the  streets  without  knowing  where 
it  wanted  to  go,  discontented  with  everything  it  did: 
then  hurrying  her  back  to  fling  itself  upon  a  chair, 
weary,  but  still  dissatisfied. 

If  only  she  could  do  something.  She  was  sick  of 
thinking. 

These  physical  activities  into  which  women  were 
throwing  themselves !  Where  one  used  one's  body 
as  well  as  one's  brain  —  hastened  to  appointments; 
gathered  round  noisy  tables;  met  fellow  human  be- 
ings, argued  with  them,  walked  with  them,  laugh- 
ing and  talking;  forced  one's  way  through  crowds; 
cheered,  shouted;  stood  up  on  platforms  before  a 
sea  of  faces;  roused  applause,  filling  and  emptying 
one's  lungs;  met  interruptions  with  swift  flash  of 
wit  or  anger,  faced  opposition,  danger  —  felt  one's 
blood  surging  through  one's  veins,  felt  one's  nerves 
quivering  with  excitement;  felt  the  delirious  thrill 
of  passion;  felt  the  mad  joy  of  the  loosened  animal. 

She  threw  herself  into  the  suffrage  movement. 
It  satisfied  her  for  a  while.  She  had  the  rare  gift 
of  public  speaking,  and  enjoyed  her  triumphs.  She 
was  temperate,  reasonable;  persuasive  rather  than 
aggressive;  feeling  her  audience  as  she  went,  never 
losing  touch  with  them.  •  She  had  the  magnetism  that 


266  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

comes  of  sympathy.  Medical  students  who  came 
intending  to  tell  her  to  go  home  and  mind  the  baby, 
remained  to  wonder  if  man  really  was  the  un- 
doubted sovereign  of  the  world,  born  to  look  upon 
woman  as  his  willing  subject;  to  wonder  whether 
under  some  unwritten  whispered  law  it  might  not 
be  the  other  way  about.  Perhaps  she  had  the  right 
—  with  or  without  the  baby — to  move  about  the 
kingdom,  express  her  wishes  for  its  care  and  man- 
agement. Possibly  his  doubts  may  not  have  been 
brought  about  solely  by  the  force  and  logic  of  her 
arguments.  Possibly  the  voice  of  Nature  is  not 
altogether  out  of  place  in  discussions  upon  Human- 
ity's affairs. 

She  wanted  votes  for  women.  But  she  wanted 
them  clean  —  won  without  dishonour.  These 
"  monkey  tricks  "  —  this  apish  fury  and  impatience  ! 
Suppose  it  did  hasten  by  a  few  months,  more  or  less, 
the  coming  of  the  inevitable.  Suppose,  by  unlaw- 
ful methods,  one  could  succeed  in  dragging  a  reform 
a  little  prematurely  from  the  womb  of  time,  did  not 
one  endanger  the  child's  health?  Of  what  value 
was  woman's  influence  on  public  affairs  going  to  be, 
if  she  was  to  boast  that  she  had  won  the  right  to 
exercise  it  by  unscrupulousness  and  brutality? 

They  were  to  be  found  at  every  corner:  the  re- 
formers who  could  not  reform  themselves.  The  be- 
lievers in  universal  brotherhood  who  hated  half  the 
people.  The  denouncers  of  tyranny  demanding  lamp- 
posts for  their  opponents.  The  bloodthirsty  preach- 
ers of  peace.  The  moralists  who  had  persuaded 
themselves  that  every  wrong  was  justified  provided 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  267 

one  were  fighting  for  the  right.  The  deaf  shouters 
for  justice.  The  excellent  intentioned  men  and 
women  labouring  for  reforms  that  could  only  be 
hoped  for  when  greed  and  prejudice  had  yielded 
place  to  reason,  and  who  sought  to  bring  about  their 
ends  by  appeals  to  passion  and  self-interest. 

And  the  insincere,  the  self-seekers,  the  self-ad- 
vertisers !  Those  who  were  in  the  business  for  even 
coarser  profit !  The  lime-light  lovers  who  would  al- 
ways say  and  do  the  clever,  the  unexpected  thing 
rather  than  the  useful  and  the  helpful  thing:  to 
whom  paradox  was  more  than  principle. 

Ought  there  not  to  be  a  school  for  reformers,  a 
training  college  where  could  be  inculcated  self-ex- 
amination, patience,  temperance,  subordination  to 
duty;  with  lectures  on  the  fundamental  laws,  within 
which  all  progress  must  be  accomplished,  outside 
which  lay  confusion  and  explosions;  with  lectures  on 
history,  showing  how  improvements  had  been 
brought  about  and  how  failure  had  been  invited, 
thus  avoiding  much  waste  of  reforming  zeal;  with 
lectures  on  the  properties  and  tendencies  of  human 
nature,  forbidding  the  attempt  to  treat  it  as  a  sum 
in  rule  of  three? 

There  were  the  others.  The  men  and  women 
not  in  the  lime-light.  The  lone,  scattered  men  and 
women  who  saw  no  flag  but  Pity's  ragged  skirt;  who 
heard  no  drum  but  the  world's  low  cry  of  pain;  who 
fought  with  feeble  hands  against  the  wrong  around 
them;  who  with  aching  heart  and  troubled  eyes 
laboured  to  make  kinder  the  little  space  about  them. 
The  great  army  of  the  nameless  reformers  un- 
cheered,  unparagraphed,  unhonoured.  The  un- 


268 

known  sowers  of  the  seed.  Would  the  reapers  of 
the  harvest  remember  them? 

Beyond  giving  up  her  visits  to  the  house,  she  had 
made  no  attempt  to  avoid  meeting  Phillips;  and  at 
public  functions  and  at  mutual  friends  they  some- 
times found  themselves  near  to  one  another.  It 
surprised  her  that  she  could  see  him,  talk  to  him, 
and  even  be  alone  with  him  without  its  troubling 
her.  He  seemed  to  belong  to  a  part  of  her  that 
lay  dead  and  buried  —  something  belonging  to  her 
that  she  had  thrust  away  with  her  own  hands :  that 
she  knew  would  never  come  back  to  her. 

She  was  still  interested  in  his  work  and  keen  to 
help  him.  It  was  going  to  be  a  stiff  fight.  He  him- 
self, in  spite  of  Carleton's  opposition,  had  been  re- 
turned with  an  increased  majority;  but  the  Party 
as  a  whole  had  suffered  loss,  especially  in  the  coun- 
ties. The  struggle  centred  round  the  agricultural 
labourer.  If  he  could  be  won  over  the  Government 
would  go  ahead  with  Phillips's  scheme.  Otherwise 
there  was  danger  of  its  being  shelved.  The  dif- 
ficulty was  the  old  problem  of  how  to  get  at  the 
men  of  the  scattered  villages,  the  lonely  cottages. 
The  only  papers  that  they  ever  saw  were  those, 
chiefly  of  the  Carleton  group,  that  the  farmers  and 
the  gentry  took  care  should  come  within  their  reach ; 
that  were  handed  to  them  at  the  end  of  their  day's 
work  as  a  kindly  gift;  given  to  the  school  children 
to  take  home  with  them;  supplied  in  ample  num- 
bers to  all  the  little  inns  and  public-houses.  In  all 
these,  Phillips  was  held  up  as  their  arch  enemy,  his 
proposal  explained  as  a  device  to  lower  their  wages, 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  269 

decrease  their  chances  of  employment,  and  rob  them 
of  the  produce  of  their  gardens  and  allotments.  No 
arguments  were  used.  A  daily  stream  of  abuse, 
misrepresentation  and  deliberate  lies,  set  forth  under 
flaming  headlines,  served  their  simple  purpose. 
The  one  weekly  paper  that  had  got  itself  established 
among  them,  that  their  fathers  had  always  taken, 
that  dimly  they  had  come  to  look  upon  as  their 
one  friend,  Carleton  had  at  last  succeeded  in  pur- 
chasing. When  that,  too,  pictured  Phillips's  plan 
as  a  diabolical  intent  to  take  from  them  even  the 
little  that  they  had,  and  give  it  to  the  loafing  so- 
cialist and  the  bloated  foreigner,  no  room  for  doubt 
was  left  to  them. 

He  had  organized  volunteer  cycle  companies  of 
speakers  from  the  towns,  young  working-men  and 
women  and  students,  to  go  out  on  summer  evenings 
and  hold  meetings  on  the  village  greens.  They  were 
winning  their  way.  But  it  was  slow  work.  And 
Carleton  was  countering  their  efforts  by  a  hired 
opposition  that  followed  them  from  place  to  place, 
and  whose  interruptions  were  made  use  of  to  repre- 
sent the  whole  campaign  as  a  fiasco. 

"  He's  clever,"  laughed  Phillips.  "  I'd  enjoy  the 
fight,  if  I'd  only  myself  to  think  of,  and  life  wasn't 
so  short." 

The  laugh  died  away  and  a  shadow  fell  upon  his 
face. 

"  If  I  could  get  a  few  of  the  big  landlords  to  come 
in  on  my  side,"  he  continued,  "  it  would  make  all 
the  difference  in  the  world.  They're  sensible  men, 
some  of  them;  and  the  whole  thing  could  be  carried 


270  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

out  without  injury  to  any  legitimate  interest.  I 
could  make  them  see  that,  if  I  could  only  get  them 
quietly  into  a  corner. 

"  But  they're  frightened  of  me,"  he  added,  with 
a  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  "  and  I  don't  seem 
to  know  how  to  tackle  them." 

Those  drawing-rooms?  Might  not  something  of 
the  sort  be  possible?  Not,  perhaps,  the  sumptuous 
salon  of  her  imagination,  thronged  with  the  fair  and 
famous,  suitably  attired.  Something,  perhaps, 
more  homely,  more  immediately  attainable.  Some 
of  the  women  dressed,  perhaps,  a  little  dowdily; 
not  all  of  them  young  and  beautiful.  The  men 
wise,  perhaps,  rather  than  persistently  witty;  a  few 
of  them  prosy,  maybe  a  trifle  ponderous,  but  solid 
and  influential.  Mrs.  Denton's  great  empty  house 
in  Gower  Street?  A  central  situation  and  near  to 
the  tube.  Lords  and  ladies  had  once  ruffled  there; 
trod  a  measure  on  its  spacious  floors;  filled  its  echo- 
ing stone  hall  with  their  greetings  and  their  part- 
ings. The  gaping  sconces,  where  their  link-boys  had 
extinguished  their  torches,  still  capped  its  grim  iron 
railings. 

Seated  in  the  great,  sombre  library,  Joan  haz- 
arded the  suggestion.  Mrs.  Denton  might  almost 
have  been  waiting  for  it.  It  would  be  quite  easy. 
A  little  opening  of  long  fastened  windows;  a  light- 
ing of  chill  grates;  a  little  mending  of  moth-eaten 
curtains,  a  sweeping  away  of  long-gathered  dust  and 
cobwebs. 

Mrs.  Denton  knew  just  the  right  people.  They 
might  be  induced  to  bring  their  sons  and  daughters 
—  it  might  be  their  grandchildren,  youth  being  there 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  271 

to  welcome  them.     For  Joan,  of  course,  would  play 
her  part. 

The  lonely  woman  touched  her  lightly  on  the 
hand.  There  shot  a  pleading  look  from  the  old 
stern  eyes. 

'  You  will  have  to  imagine  yourself  my  daughter," 
she  said.  '  You  are  taller,  but  the  colouring  was 
the  same.  You  won't  mind,  will  you?  " 

The  right  people  did  come:  Mrs.  Denton  being  a 
personage  that  a  landed  gentry,  rendered  jumpy  by 
the  perpetual  explosions  of  new  ideas  under  their 
very  feet,  and  casting  about  eagerly  for  friends,  could 
not  afford  to  snub.  A  kindly,  simple  folk,  quite  in- 
telligent, some  of  them,  as  Phillips  had  surmised. 
Mrs.  Denton  made  no  mystery  of  why  she  had  in- 
vited them.  Why  should  all  questions  be  left  to  the 
politicians  and  the  journalists?  Why  should  not  the 
people  interested  take  a  hand;  meet  and  talk  over 
these  little  matters  with  quiet  voices  and  attentive 
ears,  amid  surroundings  where  the  unwritten  law 
would  restrain  ladies  and  gentlemen  from  addressing 
other  ladies  and  gentlemen  as  blood-suckers  or  an- 
archists, as  grinders  of  the  faces  of  the  poor  or  as 
oily-tongued  rogues;  arguments  not  really  conducive 
to  mutual  understanding  and  the  bridging  over  of 
differences.  The  latest  Russian  dancer,  the  last  new 
musical  revue,  the  marvellous  things  that  can  happen 
at  golf,  the  curious  hands  that  one  picks  up  at  bridge, 
the  eternal  fox,  the  sacred  bird!  Excellent  material 
for  nine-tenths  of  our  conversation.  But  the  re- 
maining tenth?  Would  it  be  such  excruciatingly  bad 
form  for  us  to  be  intelligent,  occasionally;  say,  on 
one  or  two  Fridays  during  the  season?  Mrs.  Den- 


272  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ton  wrapped  it  up  tactfully;  but  that  was  her  daring 
suggestion. 

It  took  them  aback  at  first.  There  were  people 
who  did  this  sort  of  thing.  People  of  no  class,  who 
called  themselves  names  and  took  up  things.  But 
for  people  of  social  standing  to  talk  about  serious 
subjects  —  except,  perhaps,  in  bed  to  one's  wife ! 
It  sounded  so  un-English. 

With  the  elders  it  was  sense  of  duty  that  pre- 
vailed. That,  in  all  events,  was  English.  The 
country  must  be  saved.  To  their  sons  and  daugh- 
ters it  was  the  originality,  the  novelty  that  gradually 
appealed.  Mrs.  Denton's  Fridays  became  a  new 
sensation.  It  came  to  be  the  chic  and  proper  thing 
to  appear  at  them  in  shades  of  mauve  or  purple. 
A  pushing  little  woman  in  Hanover  Street  designed 
the  "  Denton "  bodice,  with  hanging  sleeves  and 
square-cut  neck.  The  younger  men  inclined  towards 
a  coat  shaped  to  the  waist  with  a  roll  collar. 

Joan  sighed.  It  looked  as  if  the  word  had  been 
passed  round  to  treat  the  whole  thing  as  a  joke. 
Mrs.  Denton  took  a  different  view. 

"  Nothing  better  could  have  happened,"  she  was 
of  opinion.  "  It  means  that  their  hearts  are  in  it." 

The  stone  hall  was  still  vibrating  to  the  voices  of 
the  last  departed  guests.  Joan  was  seated  on  a  foot- 
stool before  the  fire  in  front  of  Mrs.  Denton's  chair. 

"  It's  the  thing  that  gives  me  greatest  hope,"  she 
continued.  "  The  childishness  of  men  and  women. 
It  means  that  the  world  is  still  young,  still  teach- 
able." 

"  But  they're  so  slow  at  their  lessons,"  grumbled 
Joan,  "One  repeats  it  and  repeats  it;  and  then, 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  273 

when  one  feels  that  surely  now  at  least  one  has 
drummed  it  into  their  heads,  one  finds  they  have 
forgotten  all  that  one  has  ever  said." 

"  Not  always  forgotten,"  answered  Mrs.  Denton; 
"  mislaid,  it  may  be,  for  the  moment.  An  Indian 
student,  the  son  of  an  old  Rajah,  called  on  me  a  lit- 
tle while  ago.  He  was  going  back  to  organize  a 
system  of  education  among  his  people.  '  My  father 
heard  you  speak  when  you  were  over  in  India,'  he 
told  me.  '  He  has  always  been  thinking  about  it.' 
Thirty  years  ago  it  must  have  been,  that  I  undertook 
that  mission  to  India.  I  had  always  looked  back 
upon  it  as  one  of  my  many  failures." 

"But  why  leave  it  to  his  son?"  argued  Joan. 
"  Why  couldn't  the  old  man  have  set  about  it  him- 
self, instead  of  wasting  thirty  precious  years?  " 

"  I  should  have  preferred  it,  myself,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Denton.  "  I  remember  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl 
my  mother  longing  for  a  tree  upon  the  lawn  under- 
neath which  she  could  sit.  I  found  an  acorn  and 
planted  it  just  in  the  right  spot.  I  thought  I  would 
surprise  her.  I  happened  to  be  in  the  neighbour- 
hood last  summer,  and  I  walked  over.  There  was 
such  a  nice  old  lady  sitting  under  it,  knitting  stock- 
ings. So  you  see  it  wasn't  wasted." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  the  waiting,"  answered  Joan, 
"  if  it  were  not  for  the  sorrow  and  the  suffering  that 
I  see  all  round  me.  I  want  to  get  rid  of  it  right 
away,  now.  I  could  be  patient  for  myself,  but  not 
for  others." 

The  little  old  lady  straightened  herself.  There 
came  a  hardening  of  the  thin,  firm  mouth. 

"And  those  that  have  gone  before?"   she  de- 


274  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

manded.  '  Those  that  have  won  the  ground  from 
where  we  are  fighting.  Had  they  no  need  of  pa- 
tience? Was  the  cry  never  wrung  from  their  lips: 
'  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?  '  Is  it  for  us  to 
lay  aside  the  sword  that  they  bequeath  us  because 
we  cannot  hope  any  more  than  they  to  see  the  far- 
off  victory?  Fifty  years  I  have  fought,  and  what, 
a  few  years  hence,  will  my  closing  eyes  still  see  but 
the  banners  of  the  foe  still  waving,  fresh  armies 
pouring  to  his  standard?  " 

She  flung  back  her  head  and  the  grim  mouth  broke 
into  a  smile. 

"  But  I've  won,"  she  said.  "  I'm  dying  further 
forward.  I've  helped  advance  the  line." 

She  put  out  her  hands  and  drew  Joan  to  her. 

"  Let  me  think  of  you,"  she  said,  "  as  taking  my 
place,  pushing  the  outposts  a  little  further  on." 

Joan  did  not  meet  Hilda  again  till  the  child  had 
grown  into  a  woman  —  practically  speaking.  She 
had  always  been  years  older  than  her  age.  It  was 
at  a  reception  given  in  the  Foreign  Office.  Joan's 
dress  had  been  trodden  on  and  torn.  She  had 
struggled  out  of  the  crowd  into  an  empty  room,  and 
was  examining  the  damage  somewhat  ruefully, 
when  she  heard  a  voice  behind  her,  proffering  help. 
It  was  a  hard,  cold  voice,  that  yet  sounded  familiar, 
and  she  turned. 

There  was  no  forgetting  those  deep,  burning  eyes, 
though  the  face  had  changed.  The  thin  red  lips  still 
remained  its  one  touch  of  colour;  but  the  unhealthy 
whiteness  of  the  skin  had  given  place  to  a  delicate 
pallor;  and  the  features  that  had  been  indistinct  had 
shaped  themselves  in  fine,  firm  lines.  It  was  a  beau- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  275 

tiful,  arresting  face,  marred  only  by  the  sullen  cal- 
lousness of  the  dark,  clouded  eyes. 

Joan  was  glad  of  the  assistance.  Hilda  produced 
pins. 

"  I  always  come  prepared  to  these  scrimmages," 
she  explained.  "  I've  got  some  Hazeline  in  my  bag. 
They  haven't  kicked  you,  have  they?  " 

"  No,"  laughed  Joan.  "  At  least,  I  don't  think 
so." 

"  They  do  sometimes,"  answered  Hilda,  "  if  you 
happen  to  be  in  the  way,  near  the  feeding  troughs. 
If  they'd  only  put  all  the  refreshments  into  one  room, 
one  could  avoid  it.  But  they  will  scatter  them  about 
so  that  one  never  knows  for  certain  whether  one  is 
in  the  danger  zone  or  not.  I  hate  a  mob." 

"  Why  do  you  come?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Oh,  I !  "  answered  the  girl.  "  I  go  everywhere 
where  there's  a  chance  of  picking  up  a  swell  husband. 
They've  got  to  come  to  these  shows,  they  can't  help 
themselves.  One  never  knows  what  incident  may 
give  one  one's  opportunity." 

Joan  shot  a  glance.  The  girl  was  evidently 
serious. 

"You  think  it  would  prove  a  useful  alliance?" 
she  suggested. 

"  It  would  help,  undoubtedly,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  I  don't  see  any  other  way  of  getting  hold  of  them." 

Joan  seated  herself  on  one  of  the  chairs  ranged 
round  the  walls,  and  drew  the  girl  down  beside  her. 
Through  the  closed  door,  the  mingled  voices  of  the 
Foreign  Secretary's  guests  sounded  curiously  like  the 
buzzing  of  flies. 

"  It's  quite  easy,"  said  Joan,  "  with  your  beauty, 


276  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Especially  if  you're  not  going  to  be  particular.  But 
isn't  there  danger  of  your  devotion  to  your  father 
leading  you  too  far?  A  marriage  founded  on  a  lie 
—  no  matter  for  what  purpose !  —  mustn't  it  de- 
grade a  woman  —  smirch  her  soul  for  all  time? 
We  have  a  right  to  give  up  the  things  that  belong 
to  ourselves,  but  not  the  things  that  belong  to  God : 
our  truth,  our  sincerity,  our  cleanliness  of  mind  and 
body;  the  things  that  He  may  one  day  want  of  us. 
It  led  you  into  evil  once  before.  Don't  think  I'm 
judging  you.  I  was  no  better  than  you.  I  argued 
just  as  you  must  have  done.  Something  stopped  me 
just  in  time.  That  was  the  only  difference  between 
us." 

The  girl  turned  her  dark  eyes  full  upon  Joan. 
"  What  did  stop  you?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Does  it  matter  what  we  call  it?  "  answered  Joan. 
"  It  was  a  voice." 

"  It  told  me  to  do  it,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  Did  no  other  voice  speak  to  you?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl.  "  The  voice  of  weak- 
ness." 

There  came  a  fierce  anger  into  the  dark  eyes. 
"  Why  did  you  listen  to  it?  "  she  demanded.  "  All 
would  have  been  easy  if  you  hadn't." 

"  You  mean,"  answered  Joan  quietly,  "  that  if  I 
had  let  your  mother  die  and  had  married  your 
father,  that  he  and  I  would  have  loved  each  other 
to  the  end;  that  I  should  have  helped  him  and 
encouraged  him  in  all  things,  so  that  his  success 
would  have  been  certain.  Is  that  the  argument?  " 

"  Didn't  you  love  him?  "  asked  the  girl,  staring. 
"  Wouldn't  you  have  helped  him?  " 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  277 

"  I  can't  tell,"  answered  Joan.  "  I  should  have 
meant  to.  Many  men  and  women  have  loved,  and 
have  meant  to  help  each  other  all  their  lives;  and 
with  the  years  have  drifted  asunder;  coming  even 
to  be  against  one  another.  We  change  and  our 
thoughts  change;  slight  differences  of  temperament 
grow  into  barriers  between  us;  unguessed  antag- 
onisms widen  into  gulfs.  Accidents  come  into  our 
lives.  A  friend  was  telling  me  the  other  day  of  a 
woman  who  practically  proposed  to  and  married  a 
musical  genius,  purely  and  solely  to  be  of  use  to  him. 
She  earned  quite  a  big  income,  drawing  fashions; 
and  her  idea  was  to  relieve  him  of  the  necessity  of 
doing  pot-boilers  for  a  living,  so  that  he  might  de- 
vote his  whole  time  to  his  real  work.  And  a  few 
weeks  after  they  were  married  she  ran  the  point  of 
a  lead  pencil  through  her  eye  and  it  set  up  inflam- 
mation of  her  brain.  And  now  all  the  poor  fellow 
has  to  think  of  is  how  to  make  enough  to  pay  for 
her  keep  at  a  private  lunatic  asylum.  I  don't  mean 
to  be  flippant.  It's  the  very  absurdity  of  it  all  that 
makes  the  mystery  of  life  —  that  renders  it  so  hope- 
less for  us  to  attempt  to  find  our  way  through  it  by 
our  own  judgment.  It  is  like  the  ants  making  all  their 
clever,  laborious  plans,  knowing  nothing  of  chickens 
and  the  gardener's  spade.  That  is  why  we  have  to 
cling  to  the  life  we  can  order  for  ourselves  —  the 
life  within  us.  Truth,  Justice,  Pity.  They  are  the 
strong  things,  the  eternal  things,  the  things  we've 
got  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  —  serve  with  our  bodies 
and  our  souls. 

"  Don't  think  me  a  prig,"   she  pleaded.     "  I'm 
talking  as  if  I  knew  all  about  it.     I  don't  really.     I 


278  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

grope  in  the  dark;  and  now  and  then  —  at  least  so 
it  seems  to  me  —  I  catch  a  glint  of  light.  We  are 
powerless  in  ourselves.  It  is  only  God  working 
through  us  that  enables  us  to  be  of  any  use.  All  we 
can  do  is  to  keep  ourselves  kind  and  clean  and  free 
from  self,  waiting  for  Him  to  come  to  us." 

The  girl  rose.  "  I  must  be  getting  back,"  she 
said.  "  Dad  will  be  wondering  where  I've  got  to." 

She  paused  with  the  door  in  her  hand,  and  a  faint 
smile  played  round  the  thin  red  lips. 

:'  Tell  me,"  she  said.     "  What  is  God?  " 

"  A  Labourer,  together  with  man,  according  to 
Saint  Paul,"  Joan  answered. 

The  girl  turned  and  went.  Joan  watched  her  as 
she  descended  the  great  stairs.  She  moved  with 
a  curious,  gliding  motion,  pausing  at  times  for  the 
people  to  make  way  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  a  summer's  evening;  Joan  had  dropped  in 
at  the  Greysons  and  had  found  Mary  alone, 
Francis  not  having  yet  returned  from  a  bachelor 
dinner  at  his  uncle's,  who  was  some  big  pot  in  the 
Navy.  They  sat  in  the  twilight,  facing  the  open 
French  windows,  through  which  one  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  park.  A  great  stillness  seemed  to  be  around 
them. 

The  sale  and  purchase  of  the  Evening  Gazette 
had  been  completed  a  few  days  before.  Greyson 
had  been  offered  the  alternative  of  gradually  and 
gracefully  changing  his  opinions,  or  getting  out; 
and  had,  of  course,  chosen  dismissal.  He  was  tak- 
ing a  holiday,  as  Mary  explained  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  He  had  some  shares  in  it  himself,  hadn't  he?  " 
Joan  asked. 

"  Oh,  just  enough  to  be  of  no  use,"  Mary  an- 
swered. "  Carleton  was  rather  decent,  so  far  as 
that  part  of  it  was  concerned,  and  insisted  on  pay- 
ing him  a  fair  price.  The  market  value  would  have 
been  much  less;  and  he  wanted  to  be  out  of  it." 

Joan  remained  silent.  It  made  her  mad,  that  a 
man  could  be  suddenly  robbed  of  fifteen  years' 
labour;  the  weapon  that  his  heart  and  brain  had 
made  keen  wrested  from  his  hand  by  a  legal  process, 
and  turned  against  the  very  principles  for  which  all 
his  life  he  had  been  fighting. 

"  I'm  almost  more  sorry  for  myself  than  for  him," 

279 


280  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

said  Mary,  making  a  whimsical  grimace.  "  He  will 
start  something  else,  so  soon  as  he's  got  over  his  first 
soreness;  but  I'm  too  old  to  dream  of  another  child." 

He  came  in  a  little  later  and,  seating  himself 
between  them,  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe.  Looking 
back,  Joan  remembered  that  curiously  none  of  them 
had  spoken.  Mary  had  turned  at  the  sound  of  his 
key  in  the  door.  She  seemed  to  be  watching  him 
intently;  but  it  was  too  dark  to  notice  her  expression. 
He  pulled  at  his  pipe  till  it  was  well  alight  and  then 
removed  it. 

11  It's  war,"  he  said. 

The  words  made  no  immediate  impression  upon 
Joan.  There  had  been  rumours,  threatenings  and 
alarms,  newspaper  talk.  But  so  there  had  been  be- 
fore. It  would  come  one  day;  the  world  war  that 
one  felt  was  gathering  in  the  air;  that  would  burst 
like  a  second  deluge  on  the  nations.  But  it  would 
not  be  in  our  time:  it  was  too  big.  A  way  out 
would  be  found. 

11  Is  there  no  hope?"  asked  Mary. 

'  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  The  hope  that  a  miracle 
may  happen.  The  Navy's  got  its  orders." 

And  suddenly  —  as  years  before  in  a  Paris  music 
hall  —  there  leapt  to  life  within  Joan's  brain  a  little 
impish  creature  that  took  possession  of  her.  She 
hoped  the  miracle  would  not  happen.  The  little 
impish  creature  within  her  brain  was  marching  up 
and  down  beating  a  drum.  She  wished  he  would 
stop  a  minute.  Some  one  was  trying  to  talk  to  her, 
telling  her  she  ought  to  be  tremendously  shocked  and 
grieved.  He  —  or  she,  or  whatever  it  was  that  was 
trying  to  talk  to  her,  appeared  concerned  about  Rea- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  281 

son  and  Pity  and  Universal  Brotherhood  and  Civili- 
zation's clock  —  things  like  that.  But  the  little 
impish  drummer  was  making  such  a  din,  she  couldn't 
properly  hear.  Later  on,  perhaps,  he  would  get 
tired;  and  then  she  would  be  able  to  listen  to  this 
humane  and  sensible  person,  whoever  it  might  be. 

Mary  argued  that  England  could  and  should  keep 
out  of  it;  but  Greyson  was  convinced  it  would  be 
impossible,  not  to  say  dishonourable:  a  sentiment 
that  won  the  enthusiastic  approval  of  the  little  drum- 
mer in  Joan's  brain.  He  played  "  Rule  Britannia  " 
and  "  God  Save  the  King,"  the  "  Marseillaise  "  and 
the  Russian  National  hymn,  all  at  the  same  time. 
He  would  have  included  "  Deutschland  iiber  Alles," 
if  Joan  hadn't  made  a  supreme  effort  and  stopped 
him.  Evidently  a  sporting  little  devil.  He  took 
himself  off  into  a  corner  after  a  time,  where  he 
played  quietly  to  himself;  and  Joan  was  able  to  join 
in  the  conversation. 

Greyson  spoke  with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  un- 
usual to  him.  So  many  of  our  wars  had  been  mean 
wars  —  wars  for  the  wrong;  sordid  wars  for  terri- 
tory, for  gold  mines;  wars  against  the  weak  at  the 
bidding  of  our  traders,  our  financiers.  "  Shoulder- 
ing the  white  man's  burden,"  we  called  it.  Wars 
for  the  right  of  selling  opium;  wars  to  perpetuate 
the  vile  rule  of  the  Turk  because  it  happened  to 
serve  our  commercial  interests.  This  time,  we  were 
out  to  play  the  knight;  to  save  the  smaller  peoples; 
to  rescue  our  once  "  sweet  enemy,"  fair  France. 
Russia  was  the  disturbing  thought.  It  somewhat 
discounted  the  knight-errant  idea,  riding  stirrup  to 
stirrup  beside  that  barbarian  horseman.  But  there 


282  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

were  possibilities  about  Russia.  Idealism  lay  hid 
within  that  sleeping  brain.  It  would  be  a  holy  war 
for  the  Kingdom  of  the  Peoples.  With  Germany 
freed  from  the  monster  of  blood  and  iron  that  was 
crushing  out  her  soul,  with  Russia  awakened  to  life, 
we  would  build  the  United  States  of  Europe.  Even 
his  voice  was  changed.  Joan  could  almost  fancy  it 
was  some  excited  schoolboy  that  was  talking. 

Mary  had  been  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands, 
a  habit  of  hers  when  troubled.  Could  good  ever 
come  out  of  evil?  That  was  her  doubt.  Did  war 
ever  do  anything  but  sow  the  seeds  of  future  vio- 
lence; substitute  one  injustice  for  another;  change 
wrong  for  wrong?  Did  it  ever  do  anything  but  add 
to  the  world's  sum  of  evil,  making  God's  task  the 
heavier? 

Suddenly,  while  speaking,  she  fell  into  a  passion- 
ate fit  of  weeping.  She  went  on  through  her  tears: 

"  It  will  be  terrible,"  she  said.  "  It  will  last 
longer  than  you  say.  Every  nation  will  be  drawn 
into  it.  There  will  be  no  voice  left  to  speak  for 
reason.  Every  day  we  shall  grow  more  brutalized, 
more  pitiless.  It  will  degrade  us,  crush  the  soul 
out  of  us.  Blood  and  iron!  It  will  become  our 
God  too:  the  God  of  all  the  world.  You  say  we  are 
going  into  it  with  clean  hands,  this  time.  How  long 
will  they  keep  clean?  The  people  who  only  live  for 
making  money:  how  long  do  you  think  they  will 
remain  silent?  What  has  been  all  the  talk  of  the 
last  ten  years  but  of  capturing  German  trade?  We 
shall  be  told  that  we  owe  it  to  our  dead  to  make  a 
profit  out  of  them;  that  otherwise  they  will  have  died 
in  vain.  Who  will  care  for  the  people  but  to  use 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  283 

them  for  killing  one  another  —  to  hound  them  on 
like  dogs?  In  every  country  nothing  but  greed  and 
hatred  will  be  preached.  Horrible  men  and  women 
will  write  to  the  papers  crying  out  for  more  blood, 
more  cruelty.  Everything  that  can  make  for  anger 
and  revenge  will  be  screamed  from  every  newspaper. 
Every  plea  for  humanity  will  be  jeered  at  as  '  sickly 
sentimentality.'  Every  man  and  woman  who  re- 
members the  ideals  with  which  we  started  will  be 
shrieked  at  as  a  traitor.  The  people  who  are  doing 
well  out  of  it,  they  will  get  hold  of  the  Press,  appeal 
to  the  passions  of  the  mob.  Nobody  else  will  be 
allowed  to  speak.  It  always  has  been  so  in  war. 
It  always  will  be.  This  will  be  no  exception  merely 
because  it's  bigger.  Every  country  will  be  given 
over  to  savagery.  There  will  be  no  appeal  against 
it.  The  whole  world  will  sink  back  into  the  beast." 

She  ended  by  rising  abruptly  and  wishing  them 
good-night.  Her  outburst  had  silenced  Joan's  imp- 
ish drummer,  for  the  time.  He  appeared  to  be 
nervous  and  depressed,  but  bucked  up  again  on  the 
way  to  the  bus.  Greyson  walked  with  her  as  usual. 
They  took  the  long  way  round  by  the  outer  circle. 

"  Poor  Mary !  "  he  said.  "  I  should  not  have 
talked  before  her  if  I  had  thought.  Her  horror  of 
war  is  almost  physical.  She  will  not  even  read  about 
them.  It  has  the  same  effect  upon  her  as  stories  of 
cruelty. 

"  But  there's  truth  in  a  good  deal  that  she  says," 
he  added.  "  War  can  bring  out  all  that  is  best  in 
a  people;  but  also  it  brings  out  the  worst.  We  shall 
have  to  take  care  that  the  ideals  are  not  lost  sight 
of." 


284  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"  I  wish  this  wretched  business  of  the  paper  hadn't 
come  just  at  this  time,"  said  Joan:  "  just  when  your 
voice  is  most  needed. 

"  Couldn't  you  get  enough  money  together  to  start 
something  quickly,"  she  continued,  the  idea  suddenly 
coming  to  her.  "  I  think  I  could  help  you.  It 
wouldn't  matter  its  being  something  small  to  begin 
with.  So  long  as  it  was  entirely  your  own,  and 
couldn't  be  taken  away  from  you.  You'd  soon  work 
it  up." 

"  Thanks,"  he  answered.  "  I  may  ask  you  to 
later  on.  But  just  now "  He  paused. 

"  Of  course.  For  war  you  wanted  men,  to  fight. 
She  had  been  thinking  of  them  in  the  lump;  hurrying 
masses  such  as  one  sees  on  cinema  screens,  blurred 
but  picturesque.  Of  course,  when  you  came  to  think 
of  it,  they  would  have  to  be  made  up  of  individuals 

—  gallant-hearted,  boyish  sort  of  men  who  would 
pass  through  doors,  one  at  a  time,  into  little  rooms; 
give  their  name  and  address  to  a  soldier  man  seated 
at  a  big  deal  table.     Later  on,  one  would  say  good- 
bye to  them  on  crowded  platforms,  wave  a  hand- 
kerchief.    Not    all    of    them    would    come    back. 
4  You  can't  make  omelettes  without  breaking  eggs,'  ' 
she  told  herself. 

It  annoyed  her,  that  silly  saying  having  come  into 
her  mind.  She  could  see  them  lying  there,  with 
their  white  faces  to  the  night.  Surely  she  might 
have  thought  of  some  remark  less  idiotic  to  make 
to  herself,  at  such  a  time. 

He  was  explaining  to  her  things  about  the  air 
service.  It  seemed  he  had  had  experience  in  flying 

—  some  relation  of  his  with  whom  he  had  spent  a 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  285 

holiday  last  summer.     It  would  mean  his  getting 
out  quickly.     He  seemed  quite  eager  to  be  gone. 

"Isn't  it  rather  dangerous  work?"  she  asked. 
She  felt  it  was  a  footling  question  even  as  she  asked 
it.  Her  brain  had  become  stodgy. 

"  Nothing  like  as  dangerous  as  being  in  the  In- 
fantry," he  answered.  "  And  that  would  be  my 
only  other  alternative.  Besides  I  get  out  of  the 
drilling."  He  laughed.  "  I  should  hate  being 
shouted  at  and  ordered  about  by  a  husky  old  ser- 
geant." 

They  neither  spoke  again  till  they  came  to  the 
bridge,  from  the  other  side  of  which  the  busses 
started. 

"  I  may  not  see  you  again  before  I  go,"  he  said. 
"  Look  after  Mary.  I  shall  try  to  persuade  her  to 
go  down  to  her  aunt  in  Hampshire.  It's  rather  a 
bit  of  luck,  as  it  turns  out,  the  paper  being  finished 
with.  I  shouldn't  have  quite  known  what  to  do." 

He  had  stopped  at  the  corner.  They  were  still 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  Quite  uncon- 
sciously she  put  her  face  up;  and  as  if  it  had  always 
been  the  custom  at  their  partings,  he  drew  her  to 
him  and  kissed  her;  though  it  really  was  for  the  first 
time. 

She  walked  home  instead  of  taking  the  bus.  She 
wanted  to  think.  A  day  or  two  would  decide  the 
question.  She  determined  that  if  the  miracle  did 
not  happen,  she  would  go  down  to  Liverpool.  Her 
father  was  on  the  committee  of  one  of  the  great 
hospitals;  and  she  knew  one  or  two  of  the  matrons. 
She  would  want  to  be  doing  something  —  to  get  out 
to  the  front,  if  possible.  Maybe,  her  desire  to  serve 


286  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

was  not  altogether  free  from  curiosity  —  from  the 
craving  for  adventure.  There's  a  spice  of  the  man 
even  in  the  best  of  women. 

Her  conscience  plagued  her  when  she  thought  of 
Mrs.  Denton.  For  some  time  now,  they  had  been 
very  close  together;  and  the  old  lady  had  come  to 
depend  upon  her.  She  waited  till  all  doubt  was 
ended  before  calling  to  say  good-bye.  Mrs.  Denton 
was  seated  before  an  old  bureau  that  had  long  stood 
locked  in  a  corner  of  the  library.  The  drawers  were 
open  and  books  and  papers  were  scattered  about. 

Joan  told  her  plans.  "  You'll  be  able  to  get  along 
without  me  for  a  little  while?  "  she  asked  doubtfully. 

Mrs.  Denton  laughed.  "  I  haven't  much  more 
to  do,"  she  answered.  "  Just  tidying  up,  as  you 
see;  and  two  or  three  half-finished  things  I  shall  try 
to  complete.  After  that,  I'll  perhaps  take  a  rest." 

She  took  from  among  the  litter  a  faded  photo- 
graph and  handed  it  to  Joan.  "  Odd,"  she  said. 
"  I've  just  turned  it  out." 

It  represented  a  long,  thin  line  of  eminently  re- 
spectable ladies  and  gentlemen  in  early  Victorian 
costume.  The  men  in  peg-top  trousers  and  silk 
stocks,  the  women  in  crinolines  and  poke  bonnets. 
Among  them,  holding  the  hand  of  a  benevolent- 
looking,  stoutish  gentleman,  was  a  mere  girl.  The 
terminating  frills  of  a  white  unmentionable  garment 
showed  beneath  her  skirts.  She  wore  a  porkpie  hat 
with  a  feather  in  it. 

"  My  first  public  appearance,"  explained  Mrs. 
Denton.  "  I  teased  my  father  into  taking  me  with 
him.  We  represented  Great  Britain  and  Ireland. 
I  suppose  I'm  the  only  one  left." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  287 

"  I  shouldn't  have  recognized  you,"  laughed  Joan. 
"  What  was  the  occasion?  " 

1  The  great  International  Peace  Congress  at 
Paris,"  explained  Mrs.  Denton;  "just  after  the 
Crimean  War.  It  made  quite  a  stir  at  the  time. 
The  Emperor  opened  our  proceedings  in  person, 
and  the  Pope  and  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
both  sent  us  their  blessing.  We  had  a  copy  of  the 
speeches  presented  to  us  on  leaving,  in  every  known 
language  in  Europe,  bound  in  vellum.  I'm  hoping 
to  find  it.  And  the  Press  was  enthusiastic.  There 
were  to  be  Acts  of  Parliament,  Courts  of  Arbitra- 
tion, International  Laws,  Diplomatic  Treaties.  A 
Sub-Committee  was  appointed  to  prepare  a  special 
set  of  prayers  and  a  Palace  of  Peace  was  to  be 
erected.  There  was  only  one  thing  we  forgot,  and 
that  was  the  foundation. 

"  I  may  not  be  here,"  she  continued,  "  when  the 
new  plans  are  submitted.  Tell  them  not  to  forget 
the  foundation  this  time.  Tell  them  to  teach  the 
children." 

Joan  dined  at  a  popular  restaurant  that  evening. 
She  fancied  it  might  cheer  her  up.  But  the  noisy 
patriotism  of  the  over-fed  crowd  only  irritated  her. 
These  elderly,  flabby  men,  these  fleshy  women,  who 
would  form  the  spectators,  who  would  loll  on  their 
cushioned  seats  protected  from  the  sun,  munching 
contentedly  from  their  well-provided  baskets  while 
listening  to  the  dying  groans  rising  upwards  from 
the  drenched  arena.  She  glanced  from  one  podgy 
thumb  to  another  and  a  feeling  of  nausea  crept  over 
her. 

Suddenly  the  band  struck  up   "  God   Save   the 


288  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

King."  Three  commonplace  enough  young  men, 
seated  at  a  table  near  to  her,  laid  down  their  napkins 
and  stood  up.  Yes,  there  was  something  to  be  said 
for  war,  she  felt,  as  she  looked  at  their  boyish  faces, 
transfigured.  Not  for  them  Business  as  usual,  the 
Capture  of  German  Trade.  Other  visions  those 
young  eyes  were  seeing.  The  little  imp  within  her 
brain  had  seized  his  drum  again.  "  Follow  me  "  — 
so  he  seemed  to  beat  —  "I  teach  men  courage,  duty, 
the  laying  down  of  self.  I  open  the  gates  of  honour. 
I  make  heroes  out  of  dust.  Isn't  it  worth  my 
price?  " 

A  figure  was  loitering  the  other  side  of  the  street 
when  she  reached  home.  She  thought  she  somehow 
recognized  it,  and  crossed  over.  It  was  McKean, 
smoking  his  everlasting  pipe.  Success  having  de- 
manded some  such  change,  he  had  migrated  to  "  The 
Albany,"  and  she  had  not  seen  him  for  some  time. 
He  had  come  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  house  —  in 
case  it  might  happen  to  be  the  last.  He  was  off 
to  Scotland  the  next  morning,  where  he  intended  to 
"  join  up." 

"  But  are  you  sure  it's  your  particular  duty?  "  sug- 
gested Joan.  "  I'm  told  you've  become  a  household 
word  both  in  Germany  and  France.  If  we  really 
are  out  to  end  war  and  establish  the  brotherhood  of 
nations,  the  work  you  are  doing  is  of  more  im- 
portance than  even  the  killing  of  Germans.  It  isn't 
as  if  there  wouldn't  be  enough  without  you." 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  he  answered,  "  that's  exactly 
what  I've  been  saying  to  myself.  I  shan't  be  any 
good.  I  don't  see  myself  sticking  a  bayonet  into 
even  a  German.  Unless  he  happened  to  be  abnor- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  289 

mally  clumsy.  I  tried  to  shoot  a  rabbit  once.  I 
might  have  done  it  if  the  little  beggar,  instead  of 
running  away,  hadn't  turned  and  looked  at  me." 

"  I  should  keep  out  of  it  if  I  were  you,"  laughed 
Joan. 

"  I  can't,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  too  great  a 
coward." 

"  An  odd  reason  for  enlisting,"  thought  Joan. 

"  I  couldn't  face  it,"  he  went  on;  "  the  way  people 
would  be  looking  at  me  in  trains  and  omnibuses;  the 
things  people  would  say  of  me,  the  things  I  should 
imagine  they  were  saying;  what  my  valet  would  be 
thinking  of  me.  Oh,  I'm  ashamed  enough  of  my- 
self. It's  the  artistic  temperament,  I  suppose.  We 
must  always  be  admired,  praised.  We're  not  the 
stuff  that  martyrs  are  made  of.  We  must  for  ever 
be  kow-towing  to  the  cackling  geese  around  ua. 
We're  so  terrified  lest  they  should  hiss  us." 

The  street  was  empty.  They  were  pacing  it 
slowly,  up  and  down. 

"  I've  always  been  a  coward,"  he  continued.  "  I 
fell  in  love  with  you  the  first  day  I  met  you  on  the 
stairs.  But  I  dared  not  tell  you." 

"  You  didn't  give  me  that  impression,"  answered 
Joan.  She  had  always  found  it  difficult  to  know 
when  to  take  him  seriously  and  when  not. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  find  it  out,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

"  You  thought  I  would  take  advantage  of  it,"  she 
suggested. 

"  One  can  never  be  sure  of  a  woman,"  he  an- 
swered. "  And  it  would  have  been  so  difficult. 
There  was  a  girl  down  in  Scotland,  one  of  the  village 


290  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

girls.  It  wasn't  anything  really.  We  had  just 
been  children  together.  But  they  all  thought  I  had 
gone  away  to  make  my  fortune  so  as  to  come  back 
and  marry  her  —  even  my  mother.  It  would  have 
looked  so  mean  if  after  getting  on  I  had  married  a 
fine  London  lady.  I  could  never  have  gone  home 
again." 

"  But  you  haven't  married  her- —  or  have  you?  " 
asked  Joan. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  She  wrote  me  a  beautiful 
letter  that  I  shall  always  keep,  begging  me  to  forgive 
her,  and  hoping  I  might  be  happy.  She  had  married 
a  young  farmer,  and  was  going  out  to  Canada.  My 
mother  will  never  allow  her  name  to  be  mentioned 
in  our  house." 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  street  again. 
Joan  held  out  her  hand  with  a  laugh. 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment,"  she  said. 
'  Though  I  notice  you  wait  till  you're  going  away 
before  telling  me. 

"  But  quite  seriously,"  she  added,  "  give  it  a  little 
more  thought  —  the  enlisting,  I  mean.  The  world 
isn't  too  rich  in  kind  influences.  It  needs  men  like 
you.  Come,  pull  yourself  together  and  show  a  little 
pluck."  She  laughed. 

"  I'll  try,"  he  promised,  "  but  it  won't  be  any  use; 
I  shall  drift  about  the  streets,  seeking  to  put  heart 
into  myself,  but  all  the  while  my  footsteps  will  be 
bearing  me  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  recruiting  office ; 
and  outside  the  door  some  girl  in  the  crowd  will 
smile  approval  or  some  old  fool  will  pat  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  I  shall  sneak  in  and  it  will  close  be- 
hind me.  It  must  be  fine  to  have  courage." 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  291 

He  wrote  her  two  days  later  from  Ayr,  giving 
her  the  name  of  his  regiment,  and  again  some  six 
months  later  from  Flanders.  But  there  would  have 
been  no  sense  in  her  replying  to  that  last. 

She  lingered  in  the  street  by  herself  a  little  time, 
after  he  had  turned  the  corner.  It  had  been  a  house 
of  sorrow  and  disappointment  to  her;  but  so  also  she 
had  dreamed  her  dreams  there,  seen  her  visions. 
She  had  never  made  much  headway  with  her  land- 
lord and  her  landlady:  a  worthy  couple,  who  had 
proved  most  excellent  servants,  but  who  prided 
themselves  to  use  their  own  expression  on  knowing 
their  place  and  keeping  themselves  to  themselves. 
Joan  had  given  them  notice  that  morning,  and  had 
been  surprised  at  the  woman's  bursting  into  tears. 

"  I  felt  it  just  the  same  when  young  Mr.  McKean 
left  us,"  she  explained  with  apologies.  "  He  had 
been  with  us  five  years.  He  was  like  you,  miss,  so 
unpracticable.  I'd  got  used  to  looking  after  him." 

Mary  Greyson  called  on  her  in  the  morning,  while 
she  was  still  at  breakfast.  She  had  come  from  see- 
ing Francis  off  by  an  early  train  from  Euston.  He 
had  sent  Joan  a  ring. 

"  He  is  so  afraid  you  may  not  be  able  to  wear  it 
—  that  it  will  not  fit  you,"  said  Mary,  "  but  I  told 
him  I  was  sure  it  would." 

Joan  held  out  her  hand  for  the  letter.  "  I  was 
afraid  he  had  forgotten  it,"  she  answered,  with  a 
smile. 

She  placed  the  ring  on  her  finger  and  held  out 
her  hand.  "  I  might  have  been  measured  for  it," 
she  said.  "  I  wonder  how  he  knew." 

"  You  left  a  glove  behind  you,  the  first  day  you 


292  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

ever  came  to  our  house,"  Mary  explained.  "  And 
I  kept  it." 

She  was  following  his  wishes  and  going  down  into 
the  country.  They  did  not  meet  again  until  after 
the  war. 

Madge  dropped  in  on  her  during  the  week  and 
brought  Flossie  with  her.  Flossie's  husband,  Sam, 
had  departed  for  the  Navy;  and  Niel  Singleton, 
who  had  offered  and  been  rejected  for  the  Army, 
had  joined  a  Red  Cross  unit.  Madge  herself  was 
taking  up  canteen  work.  Joan  rather  expected  Flos- 
sie to  be  in  favour  of  the  war,  and  Madge  against 
it.  Instead  of  which,  it  turned  out  the  other  way 
round.  It  seemed  difficult  to  forecast  opinion  in  this 
matter. 

Madge  thought  that  England,  in  particular,  had 
been  too  much  given  up  to  luxury  and  pleasure. 
There  had  been  too  much  idleness  and  empty 
laughter :  Hitchicoo  dances  and  women  undressing 
themselves  upon  the  stage.  Even  the  working 
classes  seemed  to  think  of  nothing  else  but  cinemas 
and  beer.  She  dreamed  of  a  United  Kingdom  puri- 
fied by  suffering,  cleansed  by  tears;  its  people  drawn 
together  by  memory  of  common  sacrifice;  class  an- 
tagonism buried  in  the  grave  where  Duke's  son  and 
cook's  son  would  lie  side  by  side :  of  a  new-born 
Europe  rising  from  the  ashes  of  the  old.  With 
Germany  beaten,  her  lust  of  war  burnt  out,  her 
hideous  doctrine  of  Force  proved  to  be  false,  the 
world  would  breathe  a  freer  air.  Passion  and 
hatred  would  fall  from  man's  eyes.  The  people 
would  see  one  another  and  join  hands. 

Flossie  was  sceptical.     "  Why  hasn't  it  done  it 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  293 

before?"    she    wanted    to    know.     "Good   Lord! 
There's  been  enough  of  it. 

;<  Why  didn't  we  all  kiss  and  be  friends  after  the 
Napoleonic  wars,"  she  demanded,  "  instead  of  get- 
ting up  Peterloo  massacres,  and  anti-Corn  Law 
riots,  and  breaking  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  win- 
dows? 

"  All  this  talk  of  downing  Militarism,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  It's  like  trying  to  do  away  with  the  other 
sort  of  disorderly  house.  You  don't  stamp  out  a 
vice  by  chivying  it  round  the  corner.  When  men 
and  women  have  become  decent  there  will  be  no  more 
disorderly  houses.  But  it  won't  come  before.  Sup- 
pose we  do  knock  Militarism  out  of  Germany,  like 
we  did  out  of  France,  not  so  very  long  ago?  It 
will  only  slip  round  the  corner  into  Russia  or  Japan. 
Come  and  settle  over  here,  as  likely  as  not,  espe- 
cially if  we  have  a  few  victories  and  get  to  fancy 
ourselves." 

Madge  was  of  opinion  that  the  world  would  have 
had  enough  of  war.  Not  armies  but  whole  peoples 
would  be  involved  this  time.  The  lesson  would  be 
driven  home. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  shall  have  had  enough  of  it,"  agreed 
Flossie,  "  by  the  time  we've  paid  up.  There's  no 
doubt  of  that.  What  about  our  children?  I've 
just  left  young  Frank  strutting  all  over  the  house 
and  flourishing  a  paper  knife.  And  the  servants 
have  had  to  bar  the  kitchen  door  to  prevent  his 
bursting  in  every  five  minutes  and  attacking  them. 
What's  he  going  to  say  when  I  tell  him,  later  on, 
that  his  father  and  myself  have  had  all  the  war  we 
want,  and  have  decided  there  shall  be  no  more? 


294  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

The  old  folks  have  had  their  fun.  Why  shouldn't 
I  have  mine?  That  will  be  his  argument. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  she  concluded,  "  unless  you  are 
prepared  to  keep  half  the  world's  literature  away 
from  the  children,  scrap  half  your  music,  edit  your 
museums  and  your  picture  galleries;  bowdlerize  your 
Old  Testament  and  rewrite  your  histories.  And 
then  you'll  have  to  be  careful  for  twenty-four  hours 
a  day  that  they  never  see  a  dog-fight." 

Madge  still  held  to  her  hope.  God  would  make 
a  wind  of  reason  to  pass  over  the  earth.  He  would 
not  smite  again  his  people. 

"  I  wish  poor  dear  Sam  could  have  been  kept  out 
of  it,"  said  Flossie.  She  wiped  her  eyes  and  finished 
her  tea. 

Joan  had  arranged  to  leave  on  the  Monday.  She 
ran  down  to  see  Mary  Stopperton  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon.  Mr.  Stopperton  had  died  the  year  be- 
fore, and  Mary  had  been  a  little  hurt,  divining  in- 
sincerity in  the  condolences  offered  to  her  by  most 
of  her  friends. 

"  You  didn't  know  him,  dear,"  she  had  said  to 
Joan.  "  All  his  faults  were  on  the  outside." 

She  did  not  want  to  talk  about  the  war. 

"  Perhaps  it's  wrong  of  me,"  she  said.  "  But  it 
makes  me  so  sad.  And  I  can  do  nothing." 

She  had  been  busy  at  her  machine  when  Joan 
had  entered;  and  a  pile  of  delicate  white  work  lay 
folded  on  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  What  are  you  making?  "  asked  Joan. 

The  little  withered  face  lighted  up.  "  Guess," 
she  said,  as  she  unfolded  and  displayed  a  tiny  gar- 
ment. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  295 

"  I  so  love  making  them,"  she  said.  "  I  say  to 
myself,  *  It  will  all  come  right.  God  will  send  more 
and  more  of  His  Christ  babies;  till  at  last  there  will 
be  thousands  and  thousands  of  them  everywhere; 
and  their  love  will  change  the  world!  '  " 

Her  bright  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  the  ring 
upon  Joan's  hand.  She  touched  it  with  her  little 
fragile  fingers. 

'  You  will  let  me  make  one  for  you,  dearie,  won't 
you?"  she  said.  "I  feel  sure  it  will  be  a  little 
Christ  baby." 

Arthur  was  still  away  when  she  arrived  home. 
He  had  gone  to  Norway  on  business.  Her  father 
was  afraid  he  would  find  it  difficult  to  get  back. 
Telegraphic  communication  had  been  stopped,  and 
they  had  had  no  news  of  him.  Her  father  was 
worried.  A  big  Government  contract  had  come  in, 
while  many  of  his  best  men  had  left  to  enlist. 

"  I've  fixed  you  up  all  right  at  the  hospital,"  he 
said.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  think  of  coming  home. 
Don't  go  away,  for  a  bit."  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  asked  anything  of  her. 

Another  fortnight  passed  before  they  heard  from 
Arthur,  and  then  he  wrote  them  both  from  Hull. 
He  would  be  somewhere  in  the  North  Sea,  mine 
sweeping,  when  they  read  his  letters.  He  had 
hoped  to  get  a  day  or  two  to  run  across  and  say 
good-bye;  but  the  need  for  men  was  pressing  and 
he  had  not  liked  to  plead  excuses.  The  boat  by 
which  he  had  managed  to  leave  Bergen  had  gone 
down.  He  and  a  few  others  had  been  picked  up, 
but  the  sights  that  he  had  seen  were  haunting  him. 
He  felt  sure  his  uncle  would  agree  that  he  ought 


296  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

to  be  helping,  and  this  was  work  for  England  he 
could  do  with  all  his  heart.  He  hoped  he  was  not 
leaving  his  uncle  in  the  lurch;  but  he  did  not  think 
the  war  would  last  long,  and  he  would  soon  be  back. 

"  Dear  lad,"  said  her  father,  "  he  would  take  the 
most  dangerous  work  that  he  could  find.  But  I 
wish  he  hadn't  been  quite  so  impulsive.  He  could 
have  been  of  more  use  helping  me  with  this  War 
Office  contract.  I  suppose  he  never  got  my  letter, 
telling  him  about  it." 

In  his  letter  to  Joan  he  went  further.  He  had 
received  his  uncle's  letter,  so  he  confided  to  her. 
Perhaps  she  would  think  him  a  crank,  but  he  couldn't 
help  it.  He  hated  this  killing  business,  this  making 
of  machinery  for  slaughtering  men  in  bulk,  like  they 
killed  pigs  in  Chicago.  Out  on  the  free,  sweet  sea, 
helping  to  keep  it  clean  from  man's  abominations, 
he  would  be  away  from  it  all. 

She  saw  the  vision  of  him  that  night,  as,  leaning 
from  her  window,  she  looked  out  beyond  the  pines : 
the  little  lonely  ship  amid  the  waste  of  waters;  his 
beautiful,  almost  womanish,  face,  and  the  gentle 
dreamy  eyes  with  their  haunting  suggestion  of  a 
shadow. 

Her  little  drummer  played  less  and  less  frequently 
to  her  as  the  months  passed  by.  It  didn't  seem 
to  be  the  war  he  had  looked  forward  to.  The  illus- 
trated papers  continued  to  picture  it  as  a  sort  of 
glorified  picnic  where  smiling  young  men  lolled  lux- 
uriously in  cosy  dug-outs,  reading  their  favourite 
paper.  By  curious  coincidence,  it  generally  hap- 
pened to  be  the  journal  publishing  the  photograph. 
Occasionally,  it  appeared,  they  came  across  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  297 

enemy,  who  then  put  up  both  hands  and  shouted 
u  Kamerad."  But  the  weary,  wounded  men  she 
talked  to  told  another  story. 

She  grew  impatient  of  the  fighters  with  their 
mouths;  the  savage  old  baldheads  heroically  pre- 
pared to  sacrifice  the  last  young  man;  the  sleek,  purr- 
ing women  who  talked  childish  nonsense  about  kill- 
ing every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Germany,  but 
quite  meant  it;  the  shrieking  journalists  who  had 
decided  that  their  place  was  the  home  front;  the 
press-spurred  mobs,  the  spy  hunters,  chasing  terri- 
fied old  men  and  sobbing  children  through  the 
streets.  It  was  a  relief  to  enter  the  quiet  ward  and 
close  the  door  behind  her.  The  camp-followers :  the 
traders  and  pedlars,  the  balladmongers,  and  the 
mountebanks,  the  ghoulish  sightseers  !  War  brought 
out  all  that  was  worst  in  them.  But  the  givers  of 
their  blood,  the  lads  who  suffered,  who  had  made 
the  sacrifice :  war  had  taught  them  chivalry,  man- 
hood. She  heard  no  revilings  of  hatred  and  revenge 
from  those  drawn  lips.  Patience,  humour,  forgive- 
ness, they  had  learnt  from  war.  They  told  her 
kindly  stories  even  of  Hans  and  Fritz. 

The  little  drummer  in  her  brain  would  creep  out 
of  his  corner,  play  to  her  softly  while  she  moved 
about  among  them. 

One  day  she  received  a  letter  from  Folk.  He 
had  come  to  London  at  the  request  of  the  French 
Government  to  consult  with  English  artists  on  a 
matter  he  must  not  mention.  He  would  not  have 
the  time,  he  told  her,  to  run  down  to  Liverpool. 
Could  she  get  a  couple  of  days'  leave  and  dine  with 
him  in  London. 


298  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

She  found  him  in  the  uniform  of  a  French  Colonel. 
He  had  quite  a  military  bearing  and  seemed  pleased 
with  himself.  He  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  held 
her  out  at  arms'  length. 

"  It's  wonderful  how  like  you  are  to  your  mother," 
he  said,  "  I  wish  I  were  as  young  as  I  feel." 

She  had  written  him  at  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
telling  him  of  her  wish  to  get  out  to  the  front,  and 
he  thought  that  now  he  might  be  able  to  help  her. 

"  But  perhaps  you've  changed  your  mind,"  he 
said.  "  It  isn't  quite  as  pretty  as  it's  painted." 

"  I  want  to,"  she  answered.  "  It  isn't  all  curi- 
osity. I  think  it's  time  for  women  to  insist  on  seeing 
war  with  their  own  eyes,  not  trust  any  longer  to  the 
pictures  you  men  paint."  She  smiled. 

"  But  I've  got  to  give  it  up,"  she  added.  "  I 
can't  leave  Dad." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel.  It 
was  the  dressing  hour  and  the  place  was  almost 
empty.  He  shot  a  swift  glance  at  her. 

"  Arthur  is  still  away,"  she  explained,  "  and  I  feel 
that  he  wants  me.  I  should  be  worrying  myself, 
thinking  of  him  all  alone  with  no  one  to  look  after 
him.  It's  the  mother  instinct  I  suppose.  It  always 
has  hampered  woman."  She  laughed. 

"  Dear  old  boy,"  he  said.  He  was  watching  her 
with  a  little  smile.  "  I'm  glad  he's  got  some  luck 
at  last." 

They  dined  in  the  great  restaurant  belonging  to 
the  hotel.  He  was  still  vastly  pleased  with  him- 
self as  he  marched  up  the  crowded  room  with  Joan 
upon  his  arm.  He  held  himself  upright  and  talked 
and  laughed  perhaps  louder  than  an  elderly  gentle- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  299 

man  should.  "  Swaggering  old  beggar,"  he  must 
have  overheard  a  young  sub.  mutter  as  they  passed. 
But  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  it. 

They  lingered  over  the  meal.  Folk  was  a  bril- 
liant talker.  Most  of  the  men  whose  names  were 
filling  the  newspapers  had  sat  to  him  at  one  time  or 
another.  He  made  them  seem  quite  human.  Joan 
was  surprised  at  the  time. 

"  Come  up  to  my  rooms,  will  you?  "  he  asked. 
'  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you.  And 
then  I'll  walk  back  with  you."  She  was  staying  at 
a  small  hotel  off  Jermyn  Street. 

He  sat  her  down  by  the  fire  and  went  into  the  next 
room.  He  had  a  letter  in  his  hand  when  he  re- 
turned. Joan  noticed  that  the  envelope  was  written 
upon  across  the  corner,  but  she  was  not  near  enough 
to  distinguish  the  handwriting.  He  placed  it  on 
the  mantelpiece  and  sat  down  opposite  her. 

"  So  you  have  come  to  love  the  dear  old  chap," 
he  said. 

"  I  have  always  loved  him,"  Joan  answered.  "  It 
was  he  didn't  love  me,  for  a  time,  as  I  thought.  But 
I  know  now  that  he  does." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he 
leant  across  and  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said,  "  where  there  is  just  the 
possibility  of  an  accident:  one  never  knows.  I 
wanted  to  be  sure  that  all  was  well  with  you." 

He  was  looking  at  the  ring  upon  her  hand. 

"  A  soldier  boy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  If  he  comes  back." 
There  was  a  little  catch  in  her  voice. 

"  I  know  he'll  come  back,"  he  said.     "  I  won't 


300 

tell  you  why  I  am  so  sure.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't 
believe."  He  was  still  holding  her  hands,  looking 
into  her  eyes. 

'  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  did  you  see  your  mother 
before  she  died?  Did  she  speak  to  you?  " 

"  No,"  Joan  answered.  "  I  was  too  late.  She 
had  died  the  night  before.  I  hardly  recognized 
her  when  I  saw  her.  She  looked  so  sweet  and 
young." 

"  She  loved  you  very  dearly,"  he  said.  "  Better 
than  herself.  All  those  years  of  sorrow :  they  came 
to  her  because  of  that.  I  thought  it  foolish  of  her 
at  the  time,  but  now  I  know  she  was  wise.  I  want 
you  always  to  love  and  honour  her.  I  wouldn't  ask 
you  if  it  wasn't  right." 

She  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  "  It's  quite  easy," 
she  answered.  "  I  always  see  her  as  she  lay  there 
with  all  the  sorrow  gone  from  her.  She  looked  so 
beautiful  and  kind." 

He  rose  and  took  the  letter  from  where  he  had 
placed  it  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  stooped  and  held 
it  out  above  the  fire  and  a  little  flame  leaped  up  and 
seemed  to  take  it  from  his  hand. 

They  neither  spoke  during  the  short  walk  between 
the  two  hotels.  But  at  the  door  she  turned  and  held 
out  her  hands  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  for  being  so  kind  —  and 
wise.  I  shall  always  love  and  honour  her." 

He  kissed  her,  promising  to  take  care  of  himself. 

She  ran  against  Phillips,  the  next  day,  at  one  of 
the  big  stores  where  she  was  shopping.  He  had  ob- 
tained a  commission  early  in  the  war  and  was  now 
a  captain.  He  had  just  come  back  from  the  front 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  301 

on  leave.  The  alternative  had  not  appealed  to  him, 
of  being  one  of  those  responsible  for  sending  other 
men  to  death  while  remaining'himself  in  security  and 
comfort. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  temperament,"  he  said. 
"  Somebody's  got  to  stop  behind  and  do  the  patriotic 
speechifying.  I'm  glad  I  didn't.  Especially  after 
what  I've  seen." 

He  had  lost  interest  in  politics. 
'  There's  something  bigger  coming,"  he  said. 
"  Here  everything  seems  to  be  going  on  much  the 
same,  but  over  there  you  feel  it.  Something  grow- 
ing silently  out  of  all  this  blood  and  mud.  I  find 
myself  wondering  what  the  men  are  staring  at,  but 
when  I  look  there's  nothing  as  far  as  my  field-glasses 
will  reach  but  waste  and  desolation.  And  it  isn't 
only  on  the  faces  of  our  own  men.  It's  in  the  eyes 
of  the  prisoners  too.  As  if  they  saw  something.  A 
funny  ending  to  the  war,  if  the  people  began  to 
think." 

Mrs.  Phillips  was  running  a  Convalescent  Home 
in  Folkestone,  he  told  her;  and  had  even  made  a 
speech.  Hilda  was  doing  relief  work  among  the 
ruined  villages  of  France. 

"  It's  a  new  world  we  'shall  be  called  upon  to 
build,"  he  said.  "  We  must  pay  more  heed  to  the 
foundation  this  time." 

She  seldom  discussed  the  war  with  her  father.  At 
the  beginning,  he  had  dreamed  with  Greyson  of  a 
short  and  glorious  campaign  that  should  weld  all 
classes  together,  and  after  which  we  should  forgive 
our  enemies  and  shape  with  them  a  better  world. 
But  as  the  months  went  by,  he  appeared  to  grow 


302  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

indifferent ;  and  Joan,  who  got  about  twelve  hours  a 
day  of  it  outside,  welcomed  other  subjects. 

It  surprised  her  when  one  evening  after  dinner 
he  introduced  it  himself. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  it's  over?  "  he 
asked  her.  "  You  won't  give  up  the  fight,  will  you, 
whatever  happens?"  She  had  not  known  till  then 
that  he  had  been  taking  any  interest  in  her  work. 

"  No,"  she  answered  with  a  laugh,  "  no  matter 
what  happens,  I  shall  always  want  to  be  in  it." 

"  Good  lad,"  he  said,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder. 
"  It  will  be  an  ugly  world  that  will  come  out  of  all 
this  hate  and  anger.  The  Lord  will  want  all  the 
help  that  He  can  get. 

"And  you  don't  forget  our  compact,  do  you?" 
he  continued,  "  that  I  am  to  be  your  backer.  I 
want  to  be  in  it  too." 

She  shot  a  glance  at  him.  He  was  looking  at 
the  portrait  of  that  old  Ironside  Allway  who  had 
fought  and  died  to  make  a  nobler  England,  as  he 
had  dreamed.  A  grim,  unprepossessing  gentleman, 
unless  the  artist  had  done  him  much  injustice,  with 
high,  narrow  forehead,  and  puzzled,  staring  eyes. 

She  took  the  cigarette  from  her  lips  and  her  voice 
trembled  a  little. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  something  more  to  me  than 
that,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  feel  that  I'm  an 
Allway,  fighting  for  the  things  we've  always  had 
at  heart.  I'll  try  and  be  worthy  of  the  name." 

Her  hand  stole  out  to  him  across  the  table,  but 
she  kept  her  face  away  from  him.  Until  she  felt 
his  grasp  grow  tight,  and  then  she  turned  and  their 
eyes  met. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  303 

"  You'll  be  the  last  of  the  name,"  he  said. 
"  Something  tells  me  that.  I'm  glad  you're  a 
fighter.  I  always  prayed  my  child  might  be  a 
fighter." 

Arthur  had  not  been  home  since  the  beginning  of 
the  war.  Twice  he  had  written  them  to  expect  him, 
but  the  little  fleet  of  mine  sweepers  had  been  hard 
pressed,  and  on  both  occasions  his  leave  had  been 
stopped  at  the  last  moment.  One  afternoon  he 
turned  up  unexpectedly  at  the  hospital.  It  was  a 
few  weeks  after  the  Conscription  Act  had  been 
passed. 

Joan  took  him  into  her  room  at  the  end  of  the 
ward,  from  where,  through  the  open  door,  she  could 
still  keep  watch.  They  spoke  in  low  tones. 

"  It's  done  you  good,"  said  Joan.  "  You  look 
every  inch  the  jolly  Jack  Tar."  He  was  hard  and 
tanned,  and  his  eyes  were  marvellously  bright. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  love  the  sea.  It's  clean  and 
strong." 

A  fear  was  creeping  over  her.  "  Why  have  you 
come  back?  "  she  asked. 

He  hesitated,  keeping  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  will  agree  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  Somehow  I  felt  I  had  to." 

A  Conscientious  Objector.  She  might  have 
guessed  it.  A  "  Conchy,"  as  they  would  call  him  in 
the  Press:  all  the  spiteful  screamers  who  had  never 
risked  a  scratch,  themselves,  denouncing  him  as  a 
coward.  The  local  Dogberrys  of  the  tribunals 
would  fire  off  their  little  stock  of  gibes  and  platitudes 
upon  him,  propound  with  owlish  solemnity  the  new 
Christianity,  abuse  him  and  condemn  him,  without 


304  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

listening  to  him.  Jeering  mobs  would  follow  him 
through  the  streets.  More  than  once,  of  late,  she 
had  encountered  such  crowds  made  up  of  shrieking 
girls  and  foul-mouthed  men,  surging  round  some 
white-faced  youngster  while  the  well-dressed  passers- 
by  looked  on  and  grinned. 

She  came  to  him  and  stood  over  him  with  her 
hands  upon  his  shoulders. 

"  Must  you,  dear?  "  she  said.  "  Can't  you  rec- 
oncile it  to  yourself  —  to  go  on  with  your  work  of 
mercy,  of  saving  poor  folks'  lives?  " 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  The  shadow  that,  to 
her  fancy,  had  always  rested  there  seemed  to  have 
departed.  A  light  had  come  to  them. 

'  There  are  more  important  things  than  saving 
men's  bodies.  You  think  that,  don't  you  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  won't  try  to  hold  you 
back,  dear,  if  you  think  you  can  do  that." 

He  caught  her  hands  and  held  them. 

"  I  wanted  to  be  a  coward,"  he  said,  "  to  keep  out 
of  the  fight.  I  thought  of  the  shame,  of  the  petty 
persecutions  —  that  even  you  might  despise  me. 
But  I  couldn't.  I  was  always  seeing  His  face  before 
me  with  His  beautiful  tender  eyes,  and  the  blood 
drops  on  His  brow.  It  is  He  alone  can  save  the 
world.  It  is  perishing  for  want  of  love;  and  by  a 
little  suffering  I  might  be  able  to  help  Him.  And 
then  one  night  —  I  suppose  it  was  a  piece  of  drift- 
wood —  there  rose  up  out  of  the  sea  a  little  cross 
that  seemed  to  call  to  me  to  stretch  out  my  hand  and 
grasp  it  and  gird  it  to  my  side." 

He  had  risen.     "  Don't  you  see?  "  he  said.     "  It 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  305 

is  only  by  suffering  that  one  can  help  Him.  It  is 
the  sword  that  He  has  chosen  —  by  which  one  day 
He  will  conquer  the  world.  And  this  is  such  a 
splendid  opportunity  to  fight  for  Him.  It  would  be 
like  deserting  Him  on  the  eve  of  a  great  battle." 

She  looked  into  his  eager,  hopeful  eyes.  Yes,  it 
had  always  been  so  —  it  always  would  be,  to  the 
end.  Not  priests  and  prophets,  but  ever  that  little 
scattered  band  of  glad  sufferers  for  His  sake  would 
be  His  army.  His  weapon  still  the  cross,  till  the 
victory  should  be  won. 

She  glanced  through  the  open  door  to  where  the 
poor,  broken  fellows  she  always  thought  of  as  "  her 
boys  "  lay  so  patient,  and  then  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  with  a  smile,  though  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"  So  you're  like  all  the  rest  of  them,  lad,"  she  said. 
"  It's  for  King  and  country.  Good  luck  to  you." 

After  the  war  was  over  and  the  men,  released 
from  their  long  terms  of  solitary  confinement,  came 
back  to  life  injured  in  mind  and  body,  she  was  almost 
glad  he  had  escaped.  But  at  the  time  it  filled  her 
soul  with  darkness. 

It  was  one  noonday.  He  had  been  down  to  the 
tribunal  and  his  case  had  been  again  adjourned.  She 
was  returning  from  a  lecture,  and,  crossing  a  street 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  docks,  found  herself 
suddenly  faced  by  an  oncoming  crowd.  It  was  yelp- 
ing and  snarling,  curiously  suggestive  of  a  pack  of 
hungry  wolves.  A  couple  of  young  soldiers  were 
standing  back  against  a  wall. 

"  Better  not  go  on,  nurse,"  said  one  of  them. 
"  It's  some  poor  devil  of  a  Conchy,  I  expect.  Must 
have  a  damned  sight  more  pluck  than  I  should." 


306  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

It  was  the  fear  that  had  been  haunting  her.  She 
did  not  know  how  white  she  had  turned. 

"  I  think  it  is  some  one  I  know,"  she  said. 
"Won't  you  help  me?" 

The  crowd  gave  way  to  them,  and  they  had  all  but 
reached  him.  He  was  hatless  and  bespattered,  but 
his  tender  eyes  had  neither  fear  nor  anger  in  them. 
She  reached  out  her  arms  and  called  to  him.  An- 
other step  and  she  would  have  been  beside  him,  but 
at  the  moment,  a  slim,  laughing  girl  darted  in  front 
of  him  and  slipped  her  foot  between  his  legs  and  he 
went  down. 

She  heard  the  joyous  yell  and  the  shrill  laughter 
as  she  struggled  wildly  to  force  her  way  to  him. 
And  then  for  a  moment  there  was  a  space  and  a 
man  with  bent  body  and  clenched  hands  was  rush- 
ing forward  as  if  upon  a  football  field,  and  there 
came  a  little  sickening  thud  and  then  the  crowd 
closed  in  again. 

Her  strength  was  gone  and  she  could  only  wait. 
More  soldiers  had  come  up  and  were  using  their 
fists  freely,  and  gradually  the  crowd  retired,  still 
snarling;  and  they  lifted  him  up  and  brought  him  to 
her. 

"  There's  a  chemist's  shop  in  the  next  street. 
We'd  better  take  him  there,"  suggested  the  one  who 
had  first  spoken  to  her.  And  she  thanked  them  and 
followed  them. 

They  made  a  bed  for  him  with  their  coats  upon 
the  floor,  and  some  of  them  kept  guard  outside  the 
shop,  while  one,  putting  aside  the  frightened,  useless 
little  chemist,  waited  upon  her,  bringing  things  need- 
ful, while  she  cleansed  the  foulness  from  his  smooth 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  307 

young  face,  and  washed  the  matted  blood  from  his 
fair  hair,  and  closed  the  lids  upon  his  tender  eyes, 
and,  stooping,  kissed  the  cold,  quiet  lips. 

There  had  been  whispered  talk  among  the  men, 
and  when  she  rose  the  one  who  had  first  spoken  to 
her  came  forward.  He  was  nervous  and  stood 
stiffly. 

"  Beg  pardon,  nurse,"  he  said,  "  but  we've  sent  for 
a  stretcher,  as  the  police  don't  seem  in  any  hurry. 
Would  you  like  us  to  take  him?  Or  would  it  upset 
him,  do  you  think,  if  he  knew?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "  He  would  think 
it  kind  of  you,  I  know." 

She  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  being  borne  by 
comrades. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  from  a  small  operating  hospital  in  a  village 
of  the  Argonne  that  she  first  saw  the  war  with 
her  own  eyes. 

Her  father  had  wished  her  to  go.  Arthur's  death 
had  stirred  in  him  the  old  Puritan  blood  with  its  rec- 
ord of  long  battle  for  liberty  of  conscience.  If  war 
claimed  to  be  master  of  a  man's  soul,  then  the  new 
warfare  must  be  against  war.  He  remembered  the 
saying  of  a  Frenchwoman  who  had  been  through  the 
Franco-Prussian  war.  Joan,  on  her  return  from 
Paris  some  years  before,  had  told  him  of  her,  repeat- 
ing her  words:  "  But,  of  course,  it  would  not  do  to 
tell  the  truth,"  the  old  lady  had  said,  "  or  we  should 
have  our  children  growing  up  to  hate  war." 

"  I'll  be  lonely  and  anxious  till  you  come  back,"  he 
said.  "  But  that  will  have  to  be  my  part  of  the 
fight." 

She  had  written  to  Folk.  No  female  nurses  were 
supposed  to  be  allowed  within  the  battle  zone;  but 
under  pressure  of  shortage  the  French  staff  were  re- 
laxing the  rule,  and  Folk  had  pledged  himself  to  her 
discretion.  "  I  am  not  doing  you  any  kindness,"  he 
had  written.  "  You  will  have  to  share  the  common 
hardships  and  privations,  and  the  danger  is  real.  If 
I  didn't  feel  instinctively  that  underneath  your  mask 
of  sweet  reasonableness  you  are  one  of  the  most  ob- 
stinate young  women  God  ever  made,  and  that  with- 
out me  you  would  probably  get  yourself  into  a  still 

308 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  309 

worse  hole,  I'd  have  refused."  And  then  followed 
a  list  of  the  things  she  was  to  be  sure  to  take  with 
her,  including  a  pound  or  two  of  Keating's  insect 
powder,  and  a  hint  that  it  might  save  her  trouble, 
if  she  had  her  hair  cut  short. 

There  was  but  one  other  woman  at  the  hospital. 
It  had  been  a  farmhouse.  The  man  and  both  sons 
had  been  killed  during  the  first  year  of  the  war,  and 
the  woman  had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  stay  on.  Her 
name  was  Madame  Lelanne.  She  was  useful  by 
reason  of  her  great  physical  strength.  She  could 
take  up  a  man  as  he  lay  and  carry  him  on  her  out- 
stretched arms.  It  was  an  expressionless  face,  with 
dull,  slow-moving  eyes  that  never  changed.  She  and 
Joan  shared  a  small  grenier  in  one  of  the  barns. 
Joan  had  brought  with  her  a  camp  bedstead;  but  the 
woman,  wrapping  a  blanket  round  her,  would  creep 
into  a  hole  she  had  made  for  herself  among  the  hay. 
She  never  took  off  her  clothes,  except  the  great 
wooden-soled  boots,  so  far  as  Joan  could  discover. 

The  medical  staff  consisted  of  a  Dr.  Poujoulet  and 
two  assistants.  The  authorities  were  always  prom- 
ising to  send  him  more  help,  but  it  never  arrived. 
One  of  the  assistants,  a  Monsieur  Dubos,  a  little 
man  with  a  remarkably  big  beard,  was  a  chemist, 
who,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  had  been  on  the 
verge,  as  he  made  sure,  of  an  important  discovery  in 
connection  with  colour  photography.  Almost  the 
first  question  he  asked  Joan  was  could  she  speak 
German.  Finding  that  she  could  he  had  hurried  her 
across  the  yard  into  a  small  hut  where  patients  who 
had  borne  their  operation  successfully  awaited  their 
turn  to  be  moved  down  to  one  of  the  convalescent 


310  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

hospitals  at  the  base.  Among  them  was  a  German 
prisoner,  an  elderly  man,  belonging  to  the  Landwehr; 
in  private  life  a  photographer.  He  also  had  been 
making  experiments  in  the  direction  of  colour  pho- 
tography. Chance  had  revealed  to  the  two  men 
their  common  interest,  and  they  had  been  exchang- 
ing notes.  The  German  talked  a  little  French,  but 
not  sufficient;  and  on  the  day  of  Joan's  arrival  they 
had  reached  an  impasse  that  was  maddening  to  both 
of  them.  Joan  found  herself  up  against  technical 
terms  that  rendered  her  task  difficult,  but  fortunately 
had  brought  a  dictionary  with  her,  and  was  able  to 
make  them  understand  one  another.  But  she  had 
to  be  firm  with  both  of  them,  allowing  them  only 
ten  minutes  together  at  a  time.  The  little  French- 
man would  kneel  by  the  bedside,  holding  the  German 
at  an  angle  where  he  could  talk  with  least  danger  to 
his  wound.  It  seemed  that  each  was  the  very  man 
the  other  had  been  waiting  all  his  life  to  meet. 
They  shed  tears  on  one  another's  neck  when  they 
parted,  making  all  arrangements  to  write  to  one 
another. 

"  And  you  will  come  and  stay  with  me,"  persisted 
the  little  Frenchman,  "  when  this  affair  is  finished  " 
—  he  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  his  hands. 
"  My  wife  takes  much  interest.  She  will  be  de- 
lighted." 

And  the  big  German,  again  embracing  the  little 
Frenchman,  had  promised,  and  had  sent  his  com- 
pliments to  Madame. 

The  other  was  a  young  priest.  He  wore  the  regu- 
lation Red  Cross  uniform,  but  kept  his  cassock  hang- 
ing on  a  peg  behind  his  bed.  He  had  pretty  fre- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  311 

quent    occasion    to    take    it    down.     These    small 
emergency  hospitals,  within  range  of  the  guns,  were 
reserved    for    only    dangerous    cases:    men    whose 
wounds   would  not  permit   of   their  being  carried 
further  and  there  never  was  much  more  than  a  sport- 
ing chance  of  saving  them.     They  were  always  glad 
to  find  there  was  a  priest  among  the  staff.     Often 
it  was  the  first  question  they  would  ask  on  being 
lifted  out  of  the  ambulance.     Even  those  who  pro- 
fessed to  no  religion  seemed  comforted  by  the  idea. 
He  went  by  the  title  of  "  Monsieur  le   Pretre :  " 
Joan  never  learned  his  name.     It  was  he  who  had 
laid  out  the  little  cemetery  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  village  street.     It  had  once  been  an  orchard,  and 
some  of  the  trees  were  still  standing.     In  the  centre, 
rising  out  of  a  pile  of  rockwork,  he  had  placed  a 
crucifix  that  had  been  found  upon  the  roadside  and 
had  surrounded  it  with  flowers.     It  formed  the  one 
bright  spot  of  colour  in  the  village;  and  at  night 
time,  when  all  other  sounds  were  hushed,  the  iron 
wreaths  upon  its  little  crosses,  swaying  against  one 
another  in  the  wind,  would  make  a  low,  clear,  tink- 
ling music.     Joan  would  sometimes  lie  awake  listen- 
ing to  it.     In  some  way  she  could  not  explain  it  al- 
ways brought  the  thought  of  children  to  her  mind. 
The  doctor  himself  was  a  broad-shouldered,  bul- 
let-headed man,   clean  shaven,   with  close-cropped, 
bristly  hair.     He  had  curiously  square  hands,  with 
short,  squat  fingers.     He  had  been  head  surgeon  in 
one  of  the  Paris  hospitals,  and  had  been  assigned 
his  present  post  because  of  his  marvellous  quickness 
with  the  knife.     The  hospital  was  the  nearest  to  a 
hill  of  great  strategical  importance,  and  the  fighting 


312  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

in  the  neighbourhood  was  almost  continuous.  Often 
a  single  ambulance  would  bring  in  three  or  four 
cases,  each  one  demanding  instant  attention.  Dr. 
Poujoulet,  with  his  hairy  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
would  polish  them  off  one  after  another,  with  hardly 
a  moment's  rest  between,  not  allowing  time  even  for 
the  washing  of  the  table.  Joan  would  have  to  sum- 
mon all  her  nerve  to  keep  herself  from  collapsing. 
At  times  the  need  for  haste  was  such  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  wait  for  the  anaesthetic  to  take  effect. 
The  one  redeeming  feature  was  the  extraordinary 
heroism  of  the  men,  though  occasionally  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  call  in  the  orderlies  to  hold 
some  poor  fellow  down,  and  to  deafen  one's  ears. 

One  day,  after  a  successful  operation,  she  was 
tending  a  young  sergeant.  He  was  a  well-built, 
handsome  man,  with  skin  as  white  as  a  woman's. 
He  watched  her  with  curious  indifference  in  his  eyes 
as  she  busied  herself,  trying  to  make  him  comfort- 
able, and  did  nothing  to  help  her. 

"Has  Mam'selle  ever  seen  a  bull  fight?"  he 
asked  her. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I've  seen  all  the  horror 
and  cruelty  I  want  to  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you  would  understand  if  you 
had.  When  one  of  the  horses  goes  down  gored,  his 
entrails  lying  out  upon  the  sand,  you  know  what  they 
do,  don't  you?  They  put  a  rope  round  him,  and 
drag  him,  groaning,  into  the  shambles  behind.  And 
once  there,  kind  people  like  you  and  Monsieur  le 
Medecin  tend  him  and  wash  him,  and  put  his  entrails 
back,  and  sew  him  up  again.  He  thinks  it  so  kind 
of  them  —  the  first  time.  But  the  second!  He 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  313 

understands.  He  will  be  sent  back  into  the  arena 
to  be  ripped  up  again,  and  again  after  that.  This  is 
the  third  time  I  have  been  wounded,  and  as  soon  as 
you've  all  patched  me  up  and  I've  got  my  breath 
again,  they'll  send  me  back  into  it.  Mam'selle  will 
forgive  my  not  feeling  grateful  to  her."  He  gave 
a  short  laugh  that  brought  the  blood  into  his  mouth. 
The  village  consisted  of  one  long  straggling 
street,  following  the  course  of  a  small  stream  be- 
tween two  lines  of  hills.  It  was  on  one  of  the  great 
lines  of  communication :  and  troops  and  war  material 
passed  through  it,  going  and  coming,  in  almost  end- 
less procession.  It  served  also  as  a  camp  of  rest. 
Companies  from  the  trenches  would  arrive  there, 
generally  towards  the  evening,  weary,  listless,  dull- 
eyed,  many  of  them  staggering  like  over-driven  cat- 
tle beneath  their  mass  of  burdens.  They  would 
fling  their  accoutrements  from  them  and  stand  in 
silent  groups  till  the  sergeants  and  corporals  re- 
turned to  lead  them  to  the  barns  and  out-houses  that 
had  been  assigned  to  them,  the  houses  still  habitable 
being  mostly  reserved  for  the  officers.  Like  those 
of  most  French  villages,  they  were  drab,  plaster- 
covered  buildings  without  gardens ;  but  some  of  them 
were  covered  with  vines,  hiding  their  ugliness;  and 
the  village  as  a  whole,  with  its  groups,  here  and 
there,  of  fine  sycamore  trees  and  its  great  stone 
fountain  in  the  centre,  was  picturesque  enough.  It 
had  twice  changed  hands,  and  a  part  of  it  was  in 
ruins.  From  one  or  two  of  the  more  solidly  built 
houses  merely  the  front  had  fallen,  leaving  the  rooms 
just  as  they  had  always  been;  the  furniture  in  its 
accustomed  place,  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  They 


314  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

suggested  doll's  houses  standing  open.  One  won- 
dered when  the  giant  child  would  come  along  and 
close  them  up.  The  iron  spire  of  the  little  church 
had  been  hit  twice.  It  stood  above  the  village, 
twisted  into  the  form  of  a  note  of  interrogation.  In 
the  churchyard  many  of  the  graves  had  been  ripped 
open.  Bones  and  skulls  lay  scattered  about  among 
the  shattered  tombstones.  But,  save  for  a  couple 
of  holes  in  the  roof,  the  body  was  still  intact,  and 
every  afternoon  a  faint,  timid-sounding  bell  called  a 
few  villagers  and  a  sprinkling  of  soldiers  to  Mass. 
Most  of  the  inhabitants  had  fled,  but  the  farmers 
and  shopkeepers  had  remained.  At  intervals,  the 
German  batteries,  searching  round  with  apparent 
aimlessness,  would  drop  a  score  or  so  of  shells  about 
the  neighbourhood;  but  the  peasant,  with  an  indif- 
ference that  was  almost  animal,  would  still  follow 
his  ox-drawn  plough;  the  old,  bent  crone  muttering 
curses,  still  ply  the  hoe.  The  proprietors  of  the 
tiny  epiceries  must  have  been  rapidly  making  their 
fortunes,  considering  the  prices  that  they  charged  the 
unfortunate  poilu,  dreaming  of  some  small  luxury 
out  of  his  five  sous  a  day.  But  as  one  of  them,  a 
stout,  smiling  lady,  explained  to  Joan,  with  a  ges- 
ture :  "  It  is  not  often  that  one  has  a  war." 

Joan  had  gone  out  in  September,  and  for  a  while 
the  weather  was  pleasant.  The  men,  wrapped  up 
in  their  great  coats,  would  sleep  for  preference  un- 
der the  great  sycamore  trees.  Through  open  door- 
ways she  would  catch  glimpses  of  picturesque  groups 
of  eager  card-players,  crowded  round  a  flickering 
candle.  From  the  darkness  there  would  steal  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  315 

sound  of  flute  or  zither,  of  voices  singing.  Occa- 
sionally it  would  be  some  strident  ditty  of  the  Paris 
music-halls,  but  more  often  it  was  sad  and  plaintive. 
But  early  in  October  the  rains  commenced  and  the 
stream  became  a  roaring  torrent,  and  a  clammy  mist 
lay  like  a  white  river  between  the  wooded  hills. 

Mud !  that  seemed  to  be  the  one  word  with  which 
to  describe  modern  war.  Mud  everywhere !  Mud 
ankle-deep  upon  the  roads;  mud  into  which  you  sank 
up  to  your  knees  the  moment  you  stepped  off  it; 
tents  and  huts  to  which  you  waded  through  the  mud, 
avoiding  the  slimy  gangways  on  which  you  slipped 
and  fell;  mud-bespattered  men,  mud-bespattered 
horses;  little  donkeys,  looking  as  if  they  had  been 
sculptured  out  of  mud,  struggling  up  and  down  the 
light  railways  that  every  now  and  then  would  dis- 
appear and  be  lost  beneath  the  mud;  guns  and  wag- 
ons groaning  through  the  mud;  lorries  and  ambu- 
lances, that  in  the  darkness  had  swerved  from  the 
straight  course,  overturned  and  lying  abandoned  in 
the  mud;  motor  cyclists  ploughing  swift  furrows 
through  the  mud,  rolling  it  back  in  liquid  streams 
each  side  of  them;  staff  cars  rushing  screaming 
through  the  mud,  followed  by  a  rushing  fountain  of 
mud;  serried  ranks  of  muddy  men  stamping  through 
the  mud  with  steady  rhythm,  moving  through  a  rain 
of  mud,  rising  upward  from  the  ground;  long  lines  of 
motor-buses  filled  with  a  mass  of  muddy  humanity 
packed  shoulder  to  shoulder,  rumbling  ever  through 
the  endless  mud. 

Men  sitting  by  the  roadside  in  the  mud,  gnawing 
at  unsavoury  food;  men  squatting  by  the  ditches,  ex- 


316  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

amining  their  sores,  washing  their  bleeding  feet  in 
the  muddy  water,  replacing  the  muddy  rags  about 
their  wounds. 

A  world  without  colour.  No  other  colour  to  be 
seen  beneath  the  sky  but  mud.  The  very  buttons  on 
the  men's  coats  painted  to  make  them  look  like  mud. 

Mud  and  dirt!  Dirty  faces,  dirty  hands,  dirty 
clothes,  dirty  food,  dirty  beds;  dirty  interiors,  from 
which  there  was  never  time  to  wash  the  mud;  dirty 
linen  hanging  up  to  dry,  beneath  which  dirty  children 
played,  while  dirty  women  scolded.  Filth  and  deso- 
lation all  around.  Shattered  farmsteads  half  buried 
in  the  mud;  shattered  gardens  trampled  into  mud. 
A  weary  land  of  foulness,  breeding  foulness;  tangled 
wire  the  only  harvest  of  the  fields;  mile  after  mile 
of  gaping  holes,  filled  with  muddy  water;  stinking 
carcases  of  dead  horses;  birds  of  prey  clinging  to 
broken  fences,  flapping  their  great  wings. 

A  land  where  man  died,  and  vermin  increased  and 
multiplied.  Vermin  on  your  body,  vermin  in  your 
head,  vermin  in  your  food,  vermin  waiting  for  you 
in  your  bed;  vermin  the  only  thing  that  throve,  the 
only  thing  that  looked  at  you  with  bright  eyes; 
vermin  the  only  thing  to  which  the  joy  of  life  had 
still  been  left. 

Joan  had  found  a  liking  gradually  growing  up  in 
her  for  the  quick-moving,  curt-tongued  doctor.  She 
had  dismissed  him  at  first  as  a  mere  butcher:  his 
brutal  haste,  his  indifference  apparently  to  the  suffer- 
ing he  was  causing,  his  great,  strong,  hairy  hands, 
with  their  squat  fingers,  his  cold  grey  eyes.  But  she 
learnt  as  time  went  by,  that  his  callousness  was  a 
thing  that  he  put  on  at  the  same  time  that  he  tied 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  317 

his  white  apron  round  his  waist,  and  rolled  up  his 
sleeves. 

She  was  resting,  after  a  morning  of  grim  work,  on 
a  bench  outside  the  hospital,  struggling  with 
clenched,  quivering  hands  against  a  craving  to  fling 
herself  upon  the  ground  and  sob.  And  he  had 
found  her  there;  and  had  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  So  you  wanted  to  see  it  with  your  own  eyes,"  he 
said.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder;  and  she 
had  some  difficulty  in  not  catching  hold  of  him  and 
clinging  to  him.  She  was  feeling  absurdly  womanish 
just  at  that  moment. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  And  I'm  glad  that  I  did 
it,"  she  added,  defiantly. 

"  So  am  I,"  he  said.  "  Tell  your  children  what 
you  have  seen.  Tell  other  women. 

"  It's  you  women  that  make  war,"  he  continued. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  you  do  it  on  purpose,  but 
it's  in  your  blood.  It  comes  from  the  days  when 
to  live  it  was  needful  to  kill.  When  a  man  who  was 
swift  and  strong  to  kill  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
save  a  woman  and  her  brood.  Every  other  man 
that  crept  towards  them  through  the  grass  was  an 
enemy,  and  her  only  hope  was  that  her  man  might 
kill  him,  while  she  watched  and  waited.  And  later 
came  the  tribe;  and  instead  of  the  one  man  creeping 
through  the  grass,  the  everlasting  warfare  was 
against  all  other  tribes.  So  you  loved  only  the  men 
ever  ready  and  willing  to  fight,  lest  you  and  your 
children  should  be  carried  into  slavery:  then  it  was 
the  only  way.  You  brought  up  your  boys  to  be  fight- 
ers. You  told  them  stories  of  their  gallant  sires. 
You  sang  to  them  the  songs  of  battle:  the  glory  of 


318  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

killing  and  of  conquering.  You  have  never  unlearnt 
the  lesson.  Man  has  learnt  comradeship  —  would 
have  travelled  further  but  for  you.  But  woman  is 
still  primitive.  She  would  still  have  her  man  the 
hater  and  the  killer.  To  the  woman  the  world  has 
never  changed. 

1  Tell  the  other  women,"  he  said.  "  Open  their 
eyes.  Tell  them  of  their  sons  that  you  have  seen 
dead  and  dying  in  the  foolish  quarrel  for  which  there 
was  no  need.  Tell  them  of  the  foulness,  of  the  cru- 
elty, of  the  senselessness  of  it  all.  Set  the  women 
against  War.  That  is  the  only  way  to  end  it." 

It  was  a  morning  or  two  later  that,  knocking  at 
the  door  of  her  loft,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  care 
to  come  with  him  to  the  trenches.  He  had  brought 
an  outfit  for  her  which  he  handed  to  her  with  a  grin. 
She  had  followed  Folk's  advice  and  had  cut  her 
hair;  and  when  she  appeared  before  him  for  inspec- 
tion in  trousers  and  overcoat,  the  collar  turned  up 
about  her  neck,  and  reaching  to  her  helmet,  he  had 
laughingly  pronounced  the  experiment  safe. 

A  motor  carried  them  to  where  the  road  ended, 
and  from  there,  a  little  one-horse  ambulance  took 
them  on  to  almost  the  last  trees  of  the  forest. 
There  was  no  life  to  be  seen  anywhere.  During  the 
last  mile,  they  had  passed  through  a  continuous  dou- 
ble line  of  graves;  here  and  there  a  group  of  tiny 
crosses  keeping  one  another  company;  others  stand- 
ing singly,  looking  strangely  lonesome  amid  the  torn- 
up  earth  and  shattered  trees.  But  even  these  had 
ceased.  Death  itself  seemed  to  have  been  fright- 
ened away  from  this  terror-haunted  desert. 

Looking  down,   she   could  see  thin  wreaths   of 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  319 

smoke,  rising  from  the  ground.  From  underneath 
her  feet  there  came  a  low,  faint,  ceaseless  murmur. 
"  Quick,"  said  the  doctor.  He  pushed  her  in 
front  of  him,  and  she  almost  fell  down  a  flight  of 
mud-covered  steps  that  led  into  the  earth.  She 
found  herself  in  a  long,  low  gallery,  lighted  by  a  dim 
oil  lamp,  suspended  from  the  blackened  roof.  A 
shelf  ran  along  one  side  of  it,  covered  with  straw. 
Three  men  lay  there.  The  straw  was  soaked  with 
their  blood.  They  had  been  brought  in  the  night 
before  by  the  stretcher-bearers.  A  young  surgeon 
was  rearranging  their  splints  and  bandages,  and 
redressing  their  wounds.  They  would  lie  there  for 
another  hour  or  so,  and  then  start  for  their  twenty 
kilometre  drive  over  shell-ridden  roads  to  one  or 
another  of  the  great  hospitals  at  the  base.  While 
she  was  there,  two  more  cases  were  brought  in. 
The  doctor  gave  but  a  glance  at  the  first  one  and 
then  made  a  sign;  and  the  bearers  passed  on  with  him 
to  the  farther  end  of  the  gallery.  He  seemed  to  un- 
derstand, for  he  gave  a  low,  despairing  cry  and  the 
tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  He  was  but  a  boy.  The 
other  had  a  foot  torn  off.  One  of  the  orderlies  gave 
him  two  round  pieces  of  wood  to  hold  in  his  hands 
while  the  young  surgeon  cut  away  the  hanging  flesh 
and  bound  up  the  stump. 

The  doctor  had  been  whispering  to  one  of  the 
bearers.  He  had  the  face  of  an  old  man,  but  his 
shoulders  were  broad  and  he  looked  sturdy.  He 
nodded,  and  beckoned  Joan  to  follow  him  up  the 
slippery  steps. 

"  It  is  breakfast  time,"  he  explained,  as  they 
emerged  into  the  air.  "  We  leave  each  other  alone 


320  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

for  half  an  hour  —  even  the  snipers.  But  we  must 
be  careful."  She  followed  in  his  footsteps,  stoop- 
ing so  low  that  her  hands  could  have  touched  the 
ground.  They  had  to  be  sure  that  they  did  not  step 
off  the  narrow  track  marked  with  white  stones,  lest 
they  should  be  drowned  in  the  mud.  They  passed 
the  head  of  a  dead  horse.  It  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
cut  off  and  laid  there;  the  body  was  below  it  in  the 
mud. 

They  spoke  in  whispers,  and  Joan  at  first  had 
made  an  effort  to  disguise  her  voice.  But  her  con- 
ductor had  smiled.  "  They  shall  be  called  the  broth- 
ers and  the  sisters  of  the  Lord,"  he  had  said. 
"  Mademoiselle  is  brave  for  her  Brothers'  sake." 
He  was  a  priest.  There  were  many  priests  among 
the  stretcher-bearers. 

Crouching  close  to  the  ground,  behind  the  spread- 
ing roots  of  a  giant  oak,  she  raised  her  eyes.  Before 
her  lay  a  sea  of  smooth,  soft  mud  nearly  a  mile  wide. 
From  the  centre  rose  a  solitary  tree,  from  which  all 
had  been  shot  away  but  two  bare  branches  like  out- 
stretched arms  above  the  silence.  Beyond,  the  hills 
rose  again.  There  was  something  unearthly  in  the 
silence  that  seemed  to  brood  above  that  sea  of  mud. 
The  old  priest  told  her  of  the  living  men,  French 
and  German,  who  had  stood  there  day  and  night  sunk 
in  it  up  to  their  waists,  screaming  hour  after  hour, 
and  waving  their  arms,  sinking  into  it  lower  and 
lower,  none  able  to  help  them  :  until  at  last  only  their 
screaming  heads  were  left,  and  after  a  time  these, 
too,  would  disappear:  and  the  silence  come  again. 

She  saw  the  ditches,  like  long  graves  dug  for  the 
living,  where  the  weary,  listless  men  stood  knee-deep 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  321 

in  mud,  hoping  for  wounds  that  would  relieve  them 
from  the  ghastly  monotony  of  their  existence;  the 
holes  of  muddy  water  where  the  dead  things  lay,  to 
which  they  crept  out  in  the  night  to  wash  a  little  of 
the  filth  from  their  clammy  bodies  and  their  stinking 
clothes;  the  holes  dug  out  of  the  mud  in  which  they 
ate  and  slept  and  lived  year  after  year:  till  brain 
and  heart  and  soul  seemed  to  have  died  out  of  them, 
and  they  remembered  with  an  effort  that  they  once 
were  men. 

After  a  time,  the  care  of  the  convalescents  passed 
almost  entirely  into  Joan's  hands,  Madame  Lelanne 
being  told  off  to  assist  her.  By  dint  of  much  persist- 
ence she  had  succeeded  in  getting  the  leaky  roof  re- 
paired, and  in  place  of  the  smoky  stove  that  had  long 
been  her  despair  she  had  one  night  procured  a  fine 
calorifere  by  the  simple  process  of  stealing  it. 
Madame  Lelanne  had  heard  about  it  from  the  gos- 
sips. It  had  been  brought  to  a  lonely  house  at  the 
end  of  the  village  by  a  major  of  engineers.  He  had 
returned  to  the  trenches  the  day  before,  and  the 
place  for  the  time  being  was  empty.  The  thieves 
were  never  discovered.  The  sentry  was  positive 
that  no  one  had  passed  him  but  two  women,  one  of 
them  carrying  a  baby.  Madame  Lelanne  had 
dressed  it  up  in  a  child's  cloak  and  hood,  and  had 
carried  it  in  her  arms.  As  it  must  have  weighed 
nearly  a  couple  of  hundredweight  suspicion  had  not 
attached  to  them. 

Space  did  not  allow  of  any  separation;  broken 
Frenchmen  and  broken  Germans  would  often  lie  side 
by  side.  Joan  would  wonder,  with  a  grim  smile  to 


322  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

herself,  what  the  patriotic  Press  of  the  different 
countries  would  have  thought  had  they  been  there 
to  have  overheard  the  conversations.  Neither 
France  nor  Germany  appeared  to  be  the  enemy,  but 
a  thing  called  "  They,"  a  mysterious  power  that 
worked  its  will  upon  them  both  from  a  place  they 
always  spoke  of  as  "  Back  there."  One  day  the  talk 
fell  on  courage.  A  young  French  soldier  was  hold- 
ing forth  when  Joan  entered  the  hut. 

"  It  makes  me  laugh,"  he  was  saying,  "  all  this 
newspaper  talk.  Every  nation,  properly  led,  fights 
bravely.  It  is  the  male  instinct.  Women  go  into 
hysterics  about  it,  because  it  has  not  been  given  them. 
I  have  the  Croix  de  Guerre  with  all  three  leaves, 
and  I  haven't  half  the  courage  of  my  dog,  who 
weighs  twelve  kilos,  and  would  face  a  regiment  by 
himself.  Why,  a  game  cock  has  got  more  than  the 
best  of  us.  It's  the  man  who  doesn't  think,  who 
can't  think,  who  has  the  most  courage  —  who  imag- 
ines nothing,  but  just  goes  forward  with  his  head 
down,  like  a  bull.  There  is,  of  course,  a  real  cour- 
age. When  you  are  by  yourself,  and  have  to  do 
something  in  cold  blood.  But  the  courage  required 
for  rushing  forward,  shouting  and  yelling  with  a  lot 
of  other  fellows  —  why,  it  would  take  a  hundred 
times  more  pluck  to  turn  back." 

"  They  know  that,"  chimed  in  the  man  lying  next 
to  him;  "  or  they  would  not  drug  us.  Why,  when 
we  stormed  La  Haye  I  knew  nothing  until  an  ugly- 
looking  German  spat  a  pint  of  blood  into  my  face 
and  woke  me  up." 

A  middle-aged  sergeant,  who  had  a  wound  in  the 
stomach  and  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  looked  across. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  323 

'  There  was  a  line  of  Germans  came  upon  us,"  he 
said,  "  at  Bras.  I  thought  I  must  be  suffering  from 
a  nightmare  when  I  saw  them.  They  had  thrown 
away  their  rifles  and  had  all  joined  hands.  They 
came  dancing  towards  us  just  like  a  row  of  ballet 
girls.  They  were  shrieking  and  laughing,  and  they 
never  attempted  to  do  anything.  We  just  waited 
until  they  were  close  up  and  then  shot  them  down. 
It  was  like  killing  a  lot  of  kids  who  had  come  to  have 
a  game  with  us.  The  one  I  potted  got  his  arms 
around  me  before  he  coughed  himself  out,  calling  me 
his  '  liebe  Elsa,'  and  wanting  to  kiss  me.  Lord! 
You  can  guess  how  the  Boche  ink-slingers  spread 
themselves  over  that  business:  'Sonderbarl  Co- 
lossal! Unvergessliche  Helden.'  Poor  devils!" 

u  They'll  give  us  ginger  before  it  is  over,"  said 
another.  He  had  had  both  his  lips  torn  away,  and 
appeared  to  be  always  laughing.  "  Stuff  it  into  us  as 
if  we  were  horses  at  a  fair.  That  will  make  us  run 
forward,  right  enough." 

"  Oh,  come,"  struck  in  a  youngster  who  was  lying 
perfectly  flat,  face  downwards  on  his  bed:  it  was  the 
position  in  which  he  could  breathe  easiest.  He 
raised  his  head  a  couple  of  inches  and  twisted  it 
round  so  as  to  get  his  mouth  free.  u  It  isn't  as  bad 
as  all  that.  Why,  the  Thirty-third  swarmed  into 
Fort  Malmaison  of  their  own  accord,  though  'twas 
like  jumping  into  a  boiling  furnace,  and  held  it  for 
three  days  against  pretty  nearly  a  division.  There 
weren't  a  dozen  of  them  left  when  we  relieved  them. 
They  had  no  ammunition  left.  They'd  just  been 
filling  up  the  gaps  with  their  bodies.  And  they 
wouldn't  go  back  even  then.  We  had  to  drag  them 


324  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

away.  'They  shan't  pass,'  'They  shan't  pass!  ' — 
that's  all  they  kept  saying."  His  voice  had  sunk  to 
a  thin  whisper. 

A  young  officer  was  lying  in  a  corner  behind  a 
screen.  He  leant  forward  and  pushed  it  aside. 

"  Oh,  give  the  devil  his  due,  you  fellows,"  he  said. 
'  War  isn't  a  pretty  game,  but  it  does  make  for 
courage.  We  all  know  that.  And  things  even  finer 
than  mere  fighting  pluck.  There  was  a  man  in  my 
company,  a  Jacques  Decrusy.  He  was  just  a  stupid 
peasant  lad.  We  were  crowded  into  one  end  of  the 
trench,  about  a  score  of  us.  The  rest  of  it  had 
fallen  in,  and  we  couldn't  move.  And  a  bomb 
dropped  into  the  middle  of  us;  and  the  same  instant 
that  it  touched  the  ground  Decrusy  threw  himself 
flat  down  upon  it  and  took  the  whole  of  it  into  his 
body.  There  was  nothing  left  of  him  but  scraps. 
But  the  rest  of  us  got  off.  Nobody  had  drugged  him 
to  do  that.  There  isn't  one  of  us  who  was  in  that 
trench  that  will  not  be  a  better  man  to  the  end  of  his 
days,  remembering  how  Jacques  Decrusy  gave  his 
life  for  ours." 

"  I'll  grant  you  all  that,  sir,"  answered  the  young 
soldier  who  had  first  spoken.  He  had  long,  delicate 
hands  and  eager,  restless  eyes.  "  War  does  bring 
out  heroism.  So  does  pestilence  and  famine.  Read 
Defoe's  account  of  the  Plague  of  London.  How 
men  and  women  left  their  safe  homes,  to  serve  in  the 
pest-houses,  knowing  that  sooner  or  later  they  were 
doomed.  Read  of  the  mothers  in  India  who  die 
of  slow  starvation,  never  allowing  a  morsel  of  food 
to  pass  their  lips  so  that  they  may  save  up  their  own 
small  daily  portion  to  add  it  to  their  children's. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  325 

Why  don't  we  pray  to  God  not  to  withhold  from  us 
His  precious  medicine  of  pestilence  and  famine  ?  So 
is  shipwreck  a  fine  school  for  courage.  Look  at  the 
chance  it  gives  the  captain  to  set  a  fine  example. 
And  the  engineers  who  stick  to  their  post  with  the 
water  pouring  in  upon  them.  We  don't  reconcile 
ourselves  to  shipwrecks  as  a  necessary  school  for 
sailors.  We  do  our  best  to  lessen  them.  So  did 
persecution  bring  out  heroism.  It  made  saints  and 
martyrs.  Why  have  we  done  away  with  it?  If  this 
game  of  killing  and  being  killed  is  the  fine  school  for 
virtue  it  is  made  out  to  be,  then  all  our  efforts  to- 
wards law  and  order  have  been  a  mistake.  We 
never  ought  to  have  emerged  from  the  jungle." 

He  took  a  note-book  from  under  his  pillow  and 
commenced  to  scribble. 

An  old-looking  man  spoke.  He  lay  with  his  arms 
folded  across  his  breast,  addressing  apparently  the 
smoky  rafters.  He  was  a  Russian,  a  teacher  of 
languages  in  Paris  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  and 
had  joined  the  French  Army. 

"  It  is  not  only  courage,"  he  said,  "  that  War 
brings  out.  It  brings  out  vile  things  too.  Oh,  I'm 
not  thinking  merely  of  the  Boches.  That's  the  cant 
of  every  nation:  that  all  the  heroism  is  on  one  side 
and  all  the  brutality  on  the  other.  Take  men  from 
anywhere  and  some  of  them  will  be  devils.  War 
gives  them  their  opportunity,  brings  out  the  beast. 
Can  you  wonder  at  it?  You  teach  a  man  to  plunge 
a  bayonet  into  the  writhing  flesh  of  a  fellow  human 
being,  and  twist  it  round  and  round  and  jamb  it 
further  in,  while  the  blood  is  spurting  from  him  like 
a  fountain.  What  are  you  making  of  him  but  a 


326  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

beast?  A  man's  got  to  be  a  beast  before  he  can 
bring  himself  to  do  it.  I  have  seen  things  done  by 
our  own  men  in  cold  blood,  the  horror  of  which 
will  haunt  my  memory  until  I  die.  But  of  course, 
we  hush  it  up  when  it  happens  to  be  our  own  peo- 
ple." 

He  ceased  speaking.  No  one  seemed  inclined  to 
break  the  silence. 

They  remained  confused  in  her  memory,  these 
talks  among  the  wounded  men  in  the  low,  dimly 
lighted  hut  that  had  become  her  world.  At  times  it 
was  but  two  men  speaking  to  one  another  in  whis- 
pers, at  others  every  creaking  bed  would  be  drawn 
into  the  argument. 

One  topic  that  never  lost  its  interest  was:  Who 
made  wars?  Who  hounded  the  people  into  them, 
and  kept  them  there,  tearing  at  one  another's 
throats?  They  never  settled  it. 

"  God  knows  I  didn't  want  it,  speaking  person- 
ally," said  a  German  prisoner  one  day,  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  had  been  working  at  a  printing  business  sixteen 
hours  a  day  for  seven  years.  It  was  just  beginning 
to  pay  me,  and  now  my  wife  writes  me  that  she  has 
had  to  shut  the  place  up  and  sell  the  machinery  to 
keep  them  all  from  starving." 

"  But  couldn't  you  have  done  anything  to  stop 
it?"  demanded  a  Frenchman,  lying  next  to  him. 
"  All  your  millions  of  Socialists,  what  were  they 
up  to?  What  went  wrong  with  the  Internationale, 
the  Universal  Brotherhood  of  Labour,  and  all  that 
Tra-la-la?" 

The  German  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  they  know 
their  business,"  he-  answered.  "  You  have  your 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  327 

glass  of  beer  and  go  to  bed,  and  when  you  wake  up 
in  the  morning  you  find  that  war  has  been  declared; 
and  you  keep  your  mouth  shut  —  unless  you  want 
to  be  shot  for  a  traitor.  Not  that  it  would  have 
made  much  difference,"  he  added.  "  I  admit  that. 
The  ground  had  been  too  well  prepared.  England 
was  envious  of  our  trade.  King  Edward  had  been 
plotting  our  destruction.  Our  papers  were  full  of 
translations  from  yours,  talking  about  '  La  Re- 
vanche! '  We  were  told  that  you  had  been  lending 
money  to  Russia  to  enable  her  to  build  railways, 
and  that  when  they  were  complete  France  and  Russia 
would  fall  upon  us  suddenly.  '  The  Fatherland  in 
danger!  '  It  may  be  lies  or  it  may  not;  what  is  one 
to  do?  What  would  you  have  done  —  even  if  you 
could  have  done  anything?" 

"  He's  right,"  said  a  dreamy-eyed  looking  man, 
laying  down  the  book  he  had  been  reading.  ''  We 
should  have  done  just  the  same.  '  My  country,  right 
or  wrong.'  After  all,  it  is  an  ideal." 

A  dark,  black-bearded  man  raised  himself  pain- 
fully upon  his  elbow.  He  was  a  tailor  in  the  Rue 
Parnesse,  and  prided  himself  on  a  decided  resem- 
blance to  Victor  Hugo. 

"  It's  a  noble  ideal,"  he  said.  "  La  Patrief  The 
great  Mother.  Right  or  wrong,  who  shall  dare  to 
harm  her?  Yes,  if  it  was  she  who  rose  up  in  her 
majesty  and  called  to  us."  He  laughed.  '  What 
does  it  mean  in  reality:  Germania,  Italia,  La  France, 
Britannia?  Half  a  score  of  pompous  old  muddlers 
with  their  fat  wives  egging  them  on:  sons  of  the 
fools  before  them;  talkers  who  have  wormed  them- 
selves into  power  by  making  frothy  speeches  and 


328  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

fine  promises.  My  Country!"  he  laughed  again. 
"  Look  at  them.  Can't  you  see  their  swelling 
paunches  and  their  flabby  faces?  Half  a  score  of 
ambitious  politicians,  gouty  old  financiers,  bald- 
headed  old  toffs,  with  their  waxed  moustaches  and 
false  teeth.  That's  what  we  mean  when  we  talk 
about  '  My  Country  ' :  a  pack  of  selfish,  soulless, 
muddle-headed  old  men.  And  whether  they're  right 
or  whether  they're  wrong,  our  duty  is  to  fight  at 
their  bidding  —  to  bleed  for  them,  to  die  for  them, 
that  they  may  grow  more  sleek  and  prosperous." 
He  sank  back  on  his  pillow  with  another  laugh. 

Sometimes  they  agreed  it  was  the  newspapers 
that  made  war  —  that  fanned  every  trivial  difference 
into  a  vital  question  of  national  honour  —  that, 
whenever  there  was  any  fear  of  peace,  re-stoked  the 
fires  of  hatred  with  their  never-failing  stories  of 
atrocities.  At  other  times  they  decided  it  was  the 
capitalists,  the  traders,  scenting  profit  for  themselves. 
Some  held  it  was  the  politicians,  dreaming  of  going 
down  to  history  as  Richelieus  or  as  Bismarcks.  A 
popular  theory  was  that  cause  for  war  was  always 
discovered  by  the  ruling  classes  whenever  there 
seemed  danger  that  the  workers  were  getting  out 
of  hand.  In  war,  you  put  the  common  people  back 
in  their  place,  revived  in  them  the  habits  of  submis- 
sion and  obedience.  Napoleon  the  Little,  it  was 
argued,  had  started  the  war  of  1870  with  that  idea. 
Russia  had  welcomed  the  present  war  as  an  answer 
to  the  Revolution  that  was  threatening  Czardom. 
Others  contended  it  was  the  great  munition  indus- 
tries, aided  by  the  military  party;  the  officers  impa- 
tient for  opportunities  of  advancement,  the  strate- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  329 

gists  eager  to  put  their  theories  to  the  test.  A  few  of 
the  more  philosophical  shrugged  their  shoulders.  It 
was  the  thing  itself  that  sooner  or  later  was  bound 
to  go  off  of  its  own  accord.  Half  every  country's 
energy,  half  every  country's  time  and  money  was 
spent  in  piling  up  explosives.  In  every  country  envy 
and  hatred  of  every  other  country  was  preached  as  a 
religion.  They  called  it  patriotism.  Sooner  or 
later  the  spark  fell. 

A  wizened  little  man  had  been  listening  to  it  all 
one  day.  He  had  a  curiously  rat-like  face,  with 
round,  red,  twinkling  eyes,  and  a  long  pointed  nose 
that  twitched  as  he  talked. 

"  I'll  tell  you  who  makes  all  the  wars,"  he  said. 
"  It's  you  and  me,  my  dears :  we  make  the  wars.  We 
love  them.  That's  why  we  open  our  mouths  and 
swallow  all  the  twaddle  that  the  papers  give  us; 
and  cheer  the  fine,  black-coated  gentlemen  when  they 
tell  us  it's  our  sacred  duty  to  kill  Germans,  or  Ital- 
ians, or  Russians,  or  anybody  else.  We  are  just 
crazy  to  kill  something:  it  doesn't  matter  what.  If 
it's  to  be  Germans,  we  shout  '  A  Berlin!  ' ;  and  if  it's 
to  be  Russians  we  cheer  for  Liberty.  I  was  in  Paris 
at  the  time  of  the  Fashoda  trouble.  How  we  hissed 
the  English  in  the  cafes  !  And  how  they  glared  back 
at  us!  They  were  just  as  eager  to  kill  us.  Who 
makes  a  dog  fight?  Why,  the  dog!  Anybody  can 
do  it.  Who  could  make  us  fight  each  other,  if  we 
didn't  want  to?  Not  all  the  King's  horses  and  all 
the  King's  men.  No,  my  dears,  it's  we  make  the 
wars.  You  and  me,  my  dears." 

There  came  a  day  in  early  spring.  All  night 
long  the  guns  had  never  ceased.  It  sounded  like  the 


330  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

tireless  barking  of  ten  thousand  giant  dogs.  Behind 
the  hills,  the  whole  horizon,  like  a  fiery  circle,  was 
ringed  with  flashing  light.  Shapeless  forms,  bent 
beneath  burdens,  passed  in  endless  procession 
through  the  village.  Masses  of  rushing  men  swept 
like  shadowy  phantoms  through  the  fitfully-illumined 
darkness.  Beneath  that  everlasting  barking,  Joan 
would  hear,  now  the  piercing  wail  of  a  child;  now  a 
clap  of  thunder  that  for  the  moment  would  drown 
all  other  sounds,  followed  by  a  faint,  low,  rumbling 
crash,  like  the  shooting  of  coals  into  a  cellar.  The 
wounded  on  their  beds  lay  with  wide-open,  terrified 
eyes,  moving  feverishly  from  side  to  side. 

At  dawn  the  order  came  that  the  hospital  was  to 
be  evacuated.  The  ambulances  were  already  wait- 
ing in  the  street.  Joan  flew  up  the  ladder  to  her 
loft,  the  other  side  of  the  yard.  Madame  Lelanne 
was  already  there.  She  had  thrown  a  few  things 
into  a  bundle,  and  her  foot  was  again  upon  the  lad- 
der, when  it  seemed  to  her  that  some  one  struck  her, 
hurling  her  back  upon  the  floor,  and  the  house  the 
other  side  of  the  yard  rose  up  into  the  air,  and  then 
fell  quite  slowly,  and  a  cloud  of  dust  hid  it  from 
her  sight. 

Madame  Lelanne  must  have  carried  her  down  the 
ladder.  She  was  standing  in  the  yard,  and  the  dust 
was  choking  her.  Across  the  street,  beyond  the 
ruins  of  the  hospital,  swarms  of  men  were  running 
about  like  ants  when  their  nest  has  been  disturbed. 
Some  were  running  this  way,  and  some  that.  And 
then  they  would  turn  and  run  back  again,  making 
dancing  movements  round  one  another  and  jostling 
one  another.  The  guns  had  ceased;  and  instead,  it 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  331 

sounded  as  if  all  the  babies  in  the  world  were  playing 
with  their  rattles.     Suddenly  Madame  Lelanne  re- 
appeared out  of  the  dust,  and  seizing  Joan,  dragged 
her  through  a  dark  opening  and  down  a  flight  of 
steps,  and  then  left  her.     She  was  in  a  great  vaulted 
cellar.     A   faint  light   crept   in   through   a   grated 
window  at  the  other  end.     There  was  a  long  table 
against  the  wall,  and  in  front  of  it  a  bench.     She 
staggered  to  it  and  sat  down,  leaning  against  the 
damp  wall.     The  place  was  very  silent.     Suddenly 
she  began  to  laugh.     She  tried  to  stop  herself,  but 
couldn't.     And  then  she  heard  footsteps  descending, 
and  her  memory  came  back  to  her  with   a   rush. 
They  were  German  footsteps,  she  felt  sure  by  the 
sound :  they  were  so  slow  and  heavy.     They  should 
not  find  her  in  hysterics,   anyhow.     She  fixed  her 
teeth  into  the  wooden  table  in  front  of  her  and  held 
on  to  it  with  clenched  hands.     She  had  recovered 
herself  before  the  footsteps  had  finished  their  de- 
scent.    With  a  relief  that  made  it  difficult  for  her 
not  to  begin  laughing  again,  she  found  it  was  Ma- 
dame Lelanne  and  Monsieur  Dubos.     They  were 
carrying  something  between  them.     She  hardly  rec- 
ognized Dubos  at  first.     His  beard  was  gone,  and  a 
line  of  flaming  scars  had  taken  its  place.     They  laid 
their    burden   on    the    table.     It   was    one    of   the 
wounded  men  from  the  hut.     They  told  her  they 
were  bringing  down  two  more.     The  hut  itself  had 
not  been  hit,  but  the  roof  had  been  torn  off  by  the 
force  of  the  explosion,  and  the  others  had  been  killed 
by  the  falling  beams.     Joan  wanted  to  return  with 
them,  but  Madame  Lelanne  had  assumed  an  air  of 
authority,  and  told  her  she  would  be  more  useful 


332  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

where  she  was.  From  the  top  of  the  steps  they 
threw  down  bundles  of  straw,  on  which  they  laid 
the  wounded  men,  and  Joan  tended  them,  while 
Madame  Lelanne  and  the  little  chemist  went  up  and 
down  continuously.  Before  evening  the  place,  con- 
sidering all  things,  was  fairly  habitable.  Madame 
Lelanne  brought  down  the  great  stove  from  the  hut; 
and  breaking  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  barred  window, 
they  fixed  it  up  with  its  chimney  and  lighted  it. 
From  time  to  time  the  turmoil  above  them  would 
break  out  again;  the  rattling,  and  sometimes  a  dull 
rumbling  as  of  rushing  water.  But  only  a  faint  mur- 
mur of  it  penetrated  into  the  cellar.  Towards  night 
it  became  quiet  again. 

How  long  Joan  remained  there  she  was  never 
quite  sure.  There  was  little  difference  between  day 
and  night.  After  it  had  been  quiet  for  an  hour  or  so, 
Madame  Lelanne  would  go  out,  to  return  a  little 
later  with  a  wounded  man  upon  her  back;  and  when 
one  died,  she  would  throw  him  across  her  shoulder 
and  disappear  again  up  the  steps.  Sometimes  it 
was  a  Frenchman  and  sometimes  a  German  she 
brought  in.  One  gathered  that  the  fight  for  the 
village  still  continued.  There  was  but  little  they 
could  do  for  them  beyond  dressing  their  wounds  and 
easing  their  pain.  Joan  and  the  little  chemist  took 
it  in  turns  to  relieve  one  another.  If  Madame  Le- 
lanne ever  slept,  it  was  when  she  would  sit  in  the 
shadow  behind  the  stove,  her  hands  upon  her  knees. 
Dubos  had  been  in  the  house  when  it  had  fallen. 
Madame  Lelanne  had  discovered  him  pinned  against 
a  wall  underneath  a  great  oak  beam  that  had  with- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  333 

stood  the  falling  debris.     His  beard  had  been  burnt 
off,  but  otherwise  he  had  been  unharmed. 

She  seemed  to  be  living  in  a  dream.  She  could 
not  shake  from  her  the  feeling  that  it  was  not  bodies 
but  souls  that  she  was  tending.  The  men  themselves 
gave  colour  to  this  fancy  of  hers.  Stripped  of  their 
poor,  stained,  tattered  uniforms,  they  were  neither 
French  nor  Germans.  Friend  or  foe  !  it  was  already 
but  a  memory.  Often,  awakening  out  of  a  sleep, 
they  would  look  across  at  one  another  and  smile  as 
to  a  comrade.  A  great  peace  seemed  to  have  en- 
tered there.  Faint  murmurs  as  from  some  distant 
troubled  world  would  steal  at  times  into  the  silence. 
It  brought  a  pang  of  pity,  but  it  did  not  drive  away 
the  quiet  that  dwelt  there. 

Once,  some  one  who  must  have  known  the  place 
and  had  descended  the  steps  softly,  sat  there  among 
them  and  talked  with  them.  Joan  could  not  remem- 
ber seeing  him  enter.  Perhaps  unknowing,  she  had 
fallen  to  sleep  for  a  few  minutes.  Madame  Lelanne 
was  seated  by  the  stove,  her  great  coarse  hands  upon 
her  knees,  her  patient,  dull,  slow-moving  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  speaker's  face.  Dubos  was  half  standing, 
half  resting  against  the  table,  his  arms  folded  upon 
his  breast.  The  wounded  men  had  raised  them- 
selves upon  the  straw  and  were  listening.  Some 
leant  upon  their  elbows,  some  sat  with  their  hands 
clasped  round  their  knees,  and  one,  with  head  bent 
down,  remained  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 
The  speaker  sat  a  little  way  apart.  The  light 
from  the  oil  lamp,  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  fell 
upon  his  face.  He  wore  a  peasant's  blouse.  It 


334  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

seemed  to  her  a  face  she  knew.  Possibly  she  had 
passed  him  in  the  village  street  and  had  looked  at 
him  without  remembering.  It  was  his  eyes  that  for 
long  years  afterwards  still  haunted  her.  She  did 
not  notice  at  the  time  what  language  he  was  speak- 
ing. But  there  were  none  who  did  not  understand 
him. 

"  You  think  of  God  as  of  a  great  King,"  he  said, 
"  a  Ruler  who  orders  all  things :  who  could  change 
all  things  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  You  see  the 
cruelty  and  the  wrong  around  you.  And  you  say  to 
yourselves :  '  He  has  ordered  it.  If  He  would,  He 
could  have  willed  it  differently.'  So  that  in  your 
hearts  you  are  angry  with  Him.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise?  What  father,  loving  his  children,  would 
see  them  suffer  wrong,  when  by  stretching  out  a  hand 
he  could  protect  them:  turn  their  tears  to  gladness? 
What  father  would  see  his  children  doing  evil  to  one 
another  and  not  check  them :  would  see  them  follow- 
ing ways  leading  to  their  destruction,  and  not  pluck 
them  back?  If  God  has  ordered  all  things,  why  has 
He  created  evil,  making  His  creatures  weak  and  sin- 
ful? Does  a  father  lay  snares  for  his  children :  lead- 
ing them  into  temptation:  delivering  them  unto  evil? 

"  There  is  no  God,  apart  from  Man. 

"  God  is  a  spirit.  His  dwelling-place  is  in  man's 
heart.  We  are  His  fellow-labourers.  It  is  through 
man  that  He  shall  one  day  rule  the  world. 

"  God  is  knocking  at  your  heart,  but  you  will  not 
open  to  Him.  You  have  filled  your  hearts  with  love 
of  self.  There  is  no  room  for  Him  to  enter  in. 

"  God  whispers  to  you :  '  Be  pitiful.  Be  merci- 
ful. Be  just.'  But  you  answer  Him :  '  If  I  am  piti- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  335 

ful,  I  lose  my  time  and  money.  If  I  am  merciful,  I 
forego  advantage  to  myself.  If  I  am  just,  I  lessen 
my  own  profit,  and  another  passes  me  in  the  race.' 

"  And  yet  in  your  inmost  thoughts  you  know  that 
you  are  wrong:  that  love  of  self  brings  you  no  peace. 
Who  is  happier  than  the  lover,  thinking  only  how  to 
serve?  Who  is  the  more  joyous:  he  who  sits  alone 
at  the  table,  or  he  who  shares  his  meal  with  a  friend? 
It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.  How  can 
you  doubt  it?  For  what  do  you  toil  and  strive  but 
that  you  may  give  to  your  children,  to  your  loved 
ones,  reaping  the  harvest  of  their  good? 

"  Who  among  you  is  the  more  honoured?  The 
miser  or  the  giver :  he  who  heaps  up  riches  for  him- 
self or  he  who  labours  for  others? 

"Who  is  the  true  soldier?  He  who  has  put 
away  self.  His  own  ease  and  comfort,  even  his  own 
needs,  his  own  safety:  they  are  but  as  a  feather  in  the 
balance  when  weighed  against  his  love  for  his  com- 
rades, for  his  country.  The  true  soldier  is  not 
afraid  to  love.  He  gives  his  life  for  his  friend. 
Do  you  jeer  at  him?  Do  you  say  he  is  a  fool  for 
his  pains?  No,  it  is  his  honour,  his  glory. 

"  God  is  love.  Why  are  you  afraid  to  let  Him 
in?  Hate  knocks  also  at  your  door  and  to  him  you 
open  wide.  Why  are  you  afraid  of  love?  All 
things  are  created  by  love.  Hate  can  but  destroy. 
Why  choose  you  death  instead  of  life?  God  pleads 
to  you.  He  is  waiting  for  your  help." 
And  one  answered  him. 

"  We  are  but  poor  men,"  he  said.      ;'  What  can 
we  do?     Of  what  use  are  such  as  we?  " 
The  young  man  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 


336  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

"You  can  ask  that,"  he  said:  "you,  a  soldier? 
Does  the  soldier  say:  '  I  am  of  no  use.  I  am  but  a 
poor  man  of  no  account.  Who  has  need  of  such  as 
I  ?  '  God  has  need  of  all.  There  is  none  that  shall 
not  help  to  win  the  victory.  It  is  with  his  life  the 
soldier  serves.  Who  were  they  whose  teaching 
moved  the  world  more  than  it  has  ever  yet  been 
moved  by  the  teaching  of  the  wisest?  They  were 
men  of  little  knowledge,  of  but  little  learning,  poor 
and  lowly.  It  was  with  their  lives  they  taught. 

"  Cast  out  self,  and  God  shall  enter  in,  and  you 
shall  be  One  with  God.  For  there  is  none  so  lowly 
that  he  may  not  become  the  Temple  of  God:  there 
is  none  so  great  that  he  shall  be  greater  than  this." 

The  speaker  ceased.  There  came  a  faint  sound  at 
which  she  turned  her  head;  and  when  she  looked 
again  he  was  gone. 

The  wounded  men  had  heard  it  also.  Dubos  had 
moved  forward.  Madame  Lelanne  had  risen.  It 
came  again,  the  thin,  faint  shrill  of  a  distant  bugle. 
Footsteps  were  descending  the  stairs.  French  sol- 
diers, laughing,  shouting,  were  crowding  round  them. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HER  father  met  her  at  Waterloo.  He  had  busi- 
ness in  London,  and  they  stayed  on  for  a  few 
days.  Reading  between  the  lines  of  his  later  letters, 
she  had  felt  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  His  old 
heart  trouble  had  come  back;  and  she  noticed  that  he 
walked  to  meet  her  very  slowly.  It  would  be  all 
right,  now  that  she  had  returned,  he  explained :  he 
had  been  worrying  himself  about  her. 

Mrs.  Denton  had  died.  She  had  left  Joan  her  li- 
brary, together  with  her  wonderful  collection  of  note 
books.  She  had  brought  them  all  up-to-date  and 
indexed  them.  They  would  be  invaluable  to  Francis 
when  he  started  the  new  paper  upon  which  they  had 
determined.  He  was  still  in  the  hospital  at  Bre- 
ganze,  near  to  where  his  machine  had  been  shot 
down.  She  had  tried  to  get  to  him;  but  it  would 
have  meant  endless  delays;  and  she  had  been  anxious 
about  her  father.  The  Italian  surgeons  were  very 
proud  of  him,  he  wrote.  They  had  had  him  X-rayed 
before  and  after;  and  beyond  a  slight  lameness  which 
gave  him,  he  thought,  a  touch  of  distinction,  there 
was  no  flaw  that  the  most  careful  scrutiny  would  be 
likely  to  detect.  Any  day,  now,  he  expected  to  be 
discharged.  Mary  had  married  an  old  sweetheart. 
She  had  grown  restless  in  the  country  with  nothing  to 
do,  and,  at  the  suggestion  of  some  friends,  had  gone 
to  Bristol  to  help  in  a  children's  hospital;  and  there 
they  had  met  once  more. 

337 


338  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

Niel  Singleton,  after  serving  two  years  in  a  cholera 
hospital  at  Baghdad,  had  died  of  the  flu  in  Dover 
twenty-four  hours  after  landing.  Madge  was  in 
Palestine.  She  had  been  appointed  secretary  to  a 
committee  for  the  establishment  of  native  schools. 
She  expected  to  be  there  for  some  years,  she  wrote. 
The  work  was  interesting,  and  appealed  to  her. 

Flossie  'phoned  her  from  Paddington  Station,  the 
second  day,  and  by  luck  she  happened  to  be  in. 
Flossie  had  just  come  up  from  Devonshire.  Sam 
had  "  got  through,"  and  she  was  on  her  way  to  meet 
him  at  Hull.  She  had  heard  of  Joan's  arrival  in 
London  from  one  of  Carleton's  illustrated  dailies. 
She  brought  the  paper  with  her.  They  had  used  the 
old  photograph  that  once  had  adorned  each  week 
the  Sunday  Post.  Joan  hardly  recognized  herself 
in  the  serene,  self-confident  young  woman  who 
seemed  to  be  looking  down  upon  a  world  at  her  feet. 
The  world  was  strong  and  cruel,  she  had  discovered; 
and  Joans  but  small  and  weak.  One  had  to  pretend 
that  one  was  not  afraid  of  it. 

Flossie  had  joined  every  society  she  could  hear  of 
that  was  working  for  the  League  of  Nations.  Her 
hope  was  that  it  would  get  itself  established  before 
young  Frank  grew  up. 

"  Not  that  I  really  believe  it  will,"  she  confessed. 
11  A  draw  might  have  disgusted  us  all  with  fighting. 
As  it  is,  half  the  world  is  dancing,  at  Victory  balls, 
exhibiting  captured  guns  on  every  village  green,  and 
hanging  father's  helmet  above  the  mantelpiece; 
while  the  other  half  is  nursing  its  revenge.  Young 
Frank  only  cares  for  life  because  he  is  looking  for- 
ward to  one  day  driving  a  tank.  I've  made  up  my 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  339 

mind  to  burn  Sam's  uniform;  but  I  expect  it  will  end 
in  my  wrapping  it  up  in  lavender  and  hiding  it  away 
in  a  drawer.  And  then  there  will  be  all  the  books 
and  plays.  No  self-respecting  heroine,  for  the  next 
ten  years  will  dream  of  marrying  any  one  but  a  sol- 
dier." 

Joan  laughed.  "  Difficult  to  get  anything  else, 
just  at  present,"  she  said.  "  It's  the  soldiers  I'm 
looking  to  for  help.  I  don't  think  the  men  who  have 
been  there  will  want  their  sons  to  go.  It's  the 
women  I'm  afraid  of." 

Flossie  caught  sight  of  the  clock  and  jumped  up. 
'  Who  was  it  said  that  woman  would  be  the  last 
thing  man  would  civilize?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  sounds  like  Meredith,"  suggested  Joan.  "  I 
am  not  quite  sure." 

'  Well,  he's  wrong,  anyhow,"  retorted  Flossie. 
"  It's  no  good  our  waiting  for  man.  He  is  too  much 
afraid  of  us  to  be  of  any  real  help  to  us.  We  shall 
have  to  do  it  ourselves."  She  gave  Joan  a  hug  and 
was  gone. 

Phillips  was  still  abroad  with  the  Army  of  Oc- 
cupation. He  had  tried  to  get  out  of  it,  but  had 
not  succeeded.  He  held  it  to  be  gaoler's  work;  and 
the  sight  of  the  starving  populace  was  stirring  in  him 
a  fierce  anger. 

He  would  not  put  up  again  for  Parliament.  He 
was  thinking  of  going  back  to  his  old  work  upon  the 
Union.  "  Parliament  is  played  out,"  he  had  writ- 
ten her.  "  Kings  and  Aristocracies  have  served 
their  purpose  and  have  gone,  and  now  the  Ruling 
Classes,  as  they  call  themselves,  must  be  content  to 
hear  the  bell  toll  for  them  also.  Parliament  was 


340  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

never  anything  more  than  an  instrument  in  their 
hands,  and  never  can  be.  What  happens?  Once  in 
every  five  years  you  wake  the  people  up :  tell  them 
the  time  has  come  for  them  to  exercise  their  Heaven- 
ordained  privilege  of  putting  a  cross  against  the 
names  of  some  seven  hundred  gentlemen  who  have 
kindly  expressed  their  willingness  to  rule  over  them. 
After  that,  you  send  the  people  back  to  sleep;  and 
for  the  next  five  years  these  seven  hundred  gentle- 
men, consulting  no  one  but  themselves,  rule  over  the 
country  as  absolutely  as  ever  a  Caesar  ruled  over 
Rome.  What  sort  of  Democracy  is  that?  Even  a 
Labour  Government — supposing  that  in  spite  of 
the  Press  it  did  win  through  —  what  would  be  its 
fate?  Separated  from  its  base,  imprisoned  within 
those  tradition-haunted  walls,  it  would  lose  touch 
with  the  people,  would  become  in  its  turn  a  mere 
oligarchy.  If  the  people  are  ever  to  govern  they 
must  keep  their  hand  firmly  upon  the  machine;  not 
remain  content  with  pulling  a  lever  and  then  being 
shown  the  door." 

She  had  sent  a  note  by  messenger  to  Mary  Stop- 
perton  to  say  she  was  coming.  Mary  had  looked 
very  fragile  the  last  time  she  had  seen  her,  just  be- 
fore leaving  for  France;  and  she  had  felt  a  fear. 
Mary  had  answered  in  her  neat,  thin,  quavering 
writing,  asking  her  to  come  early  in  the  morning. 
Sometimes  she  was  a  little  tired  and  had  to  lie  down 
again.  She  had  been  waiting  for  Joan.  She  had 
a  present  for  her. 

The  morning  promised  to  be  fair,  and  she  de- 
cided to  walk  by  way  of  the  Embankment.  The 
great  river  with  its  deep,  strong  patience  had  always 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  341 

been  a  friend  to  her.  It  was  Sunday  and  the  city 
was  still  sleeping.  The  pale  December  sun  rose 
above  the  mist  as  she  reached  the  corner  of  West- 
minster Bridge,  turning  the  river  into  silver  and 
flooding  the  silent  streets  with  a  soft,  white,  tender 
light. 

The  tower  of  Chelsea  Church  brought  back  to  her 
remembrance  of  the  wheezy  old  clergyman  who  had 
preached  there  that  Sunday  evening,  that  now 
seemed  so  long  ago,  when  her  footsteps  had  first 
taken  her  that  way  by  chance.  Always  she  had  in- 
tended making  inquiries  and  discovering  his  name. 
Why  had  she  never  done  so?  It  would  surely  have 
been  easy.  He  was  some  one  she  had  known  as  a 
child.  She  had  become  quite  convinced  of  that. 
She  could  see  his  face  close  to  hers  as  if  he  had  lifted 
her  up  in  his  arms  and  was  smiling  at  her.  But 
pride  and  power  had  looked  out  of  his  eyes  then. 

It  was  earlier  than  the  time  she  had  fixed  in  her 
own  mind  and,  pausing  with  her  elbows  resting  on 
the  granite  parapet,  she  watched  the  ceaseless  waters 
returning  to  the  sea,  bearing  their  burden  of  impuri- 
ties. 

"  All  roads  lead  to  Calvary."  It  was  curious 
how  the  words  had  dwelt  with  her,  till  gradually  they 
had  become  a  part  of  her  creed.  She  remembered 
how  at  first  they  had  seemed  to  her  a  threat  chilling 
her  with  fear.  They  had  grown  to  be  a  promise: 
a  hope  held  out  to  all.  The  road  to  Calvary!  It 
was  the  road  to  life.  By  the  giving  up  of  self  we 
gained  God. 

And  suddenly  a  great  peace  came  to  her.  One 
was  not  alone  in  the  fight.  God  was  with  us:  the 


342  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

great  Comrade.  The  evil  and  the  cruelty  all  round 
her:  she  was  no  longer  afraid  of  it.  God  was  com- 
ing. Beyond  the  menace  of  the  passing  day,  black 
with  the  war's  foul  aftermath  of  evil  dreams  and 
hatreds,  she  saw  the  breaking  of  the  distant  dawn. 
The  devil  should  not  always  triumph.  God  was 
gathering  His  labourers. 

God  was  conquering.  Unceasing  through  the 
ages,  God's  voice  had  crept  round  man,  seeking  entry. 
Through  the  long  darkness  of  that  dim  beginning, 
when  man  knew  no  law  but  self,  unceasing  God  had 
striven:  until  at  last  one  here  and  there,  emerging 
from  the  brute,  had  heard  —  had  listened  to  the 
voice  of  love  and  pity,  and  in  that  hour,  unknow- 
ing, had  built  to  God  a  temple  in  the  wilderness. 

Labourers  together  with  God.  The  mighty  host 
of  those  who  through  the  ages  had  heard  the  voice  of 
God  and  had  made  answer.  The  men  and  women  in 
all  lands  who  had  made  room  in  their  hearts  for  God. 
Still  nameless,  scattered,  unknown  to  one  another: 
still  powerless  as  yet  against  the  world's  foul  law  of 
hate,  they  should  continue  to  increase  and  multiply, 
until  one  day  they  should  speak  with  God's  voice 
and  should  be  heard.  And  a  new  world  should  be 
created. 

God.  The  tireless  Spirit  of  eternal  creation,  the 
Spirit  of  Love.  What  else  was  it  that  out  of  form- 
lessness had  shaped  the  spheres,  had  planned  the 
orbits  of  the  suns  ?  The  law  of  gravity  we  named  it. 
What  was  it  but  another  name  for  Love,  the  yearn- 
ing of  like  for  like,  the  calling  to  one  another  of  the 
stars?  What  else  but  Love  had  made  the  worlds, 
had  gathered  together  the  waters,  had  fashioned  the 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  343 

dry  land?  The  cohesion  of  elements,  so  we  ex- 
plained it.  The  clinging  of  like  to  like.  The  broth- 
erhood of  the  atoms. 

God.  The  Eternal  Creator.  Out  of  matter, 
lifeless  void,  he  had  moulded  His  worlds,  had  or- 
dered His  endless  firmament.  It  was  finished.  The 
greater  task  remained:  the  Universe  of  mind,  of 
soul.  Out  of  man  it  should  be  created.  God  in 
man  and  man  in  God:  made  in  like  image:  fellow 
labourers  together  with  one  another:  together  they 
should  build  it.  Out  of  the  senseless  strife  and  dis- 
cord, above  the  chaos  and  the  tumult  should  be  heard 
the  new  command:  "  Let  there  be  Love." 

The  striking  of  the  old  church  clock  recalled  her 
to  herself.  But  she  had  only  a  few  minutes'  walk 
before  her.  Mary  had  given  up  her  Church  work. 
It  included  the  cleaning,  and  she  had  found  it  beyond 
her  failing  strength.  But  she  still  lived  in  the  tiny 
cottage  behind  its  long  strip  of  garden.  The  door 
yielded  to  Joan's  touch:  it  was  seldom  fast  closed. 
And  knowing  Mary's  ways,  she  entered  without 
knocking  and  pushed  it  to  behind  her  leaving  it  still 
ajar. 

And  as  she  did  so,  it  seemed  to  her  that  some  one 
passing  breathed  upon  her  lips  a  little  kiss:  and  for 
a  while  she  did  not  move.  Then,  treading  softly, 
she  looked  into  the  room. 

It  welcomed  her,  as  always,  with  its  smile  of  cosy 
neatness.  The  spotless  curtains  that  were  Mary's 
pride :  the  gay  flowers  in  the  window,  to  which  she 
had  given  children's  names:  the  few  poor  pieces  of 
furniture,  polished  with  much  loving  labour;  the 
shining  grate:  the  foolish  china  dogs  and  the  little 


344 

china  house  between  them  on  the  mantelpiece.  The 
fire  was  burning  brightly,  and  the  kettle  was  singing 
on  the  hob. 

Mary's  work  was  finished.  She  sat  upright  in  her 
straight-backed  chair  before  the  table,  her  eyes  half 
closed.  It  seemed  so  odd  to  see  those  little  work- 
worn  hands  idle  upon  her  lap. 

Joan's  present  lay  on  the  table  near  to  her,  as  if 
she  had  just  folded  it  and  placed  it  there :  the  little 
cap  and  the  fine  robe  of  lawn :  as  if  for  a  king's  child. 

Joan  had  never  thought  that  Death  could  be  so 
beautiful.  It  was  as  if  some  friend  had  looked  in  at 
the  door,  and,  seeing  her  so  tired,  had  taken  the  work 
gently  from  her  hands,  and  had  folded  them  upon 
her  lap.  And  she  had  yielded  with  a  smile. 

Joan  heard  a  faint  rustle  and  looked  up.  A 
woman  had  entered.  It  was  the  girl  she  had  met 
there  on  a  Christmas  Day,  a  Miss  Ensor.  Joan  had 
met  her  once  or  twice  since  then.  She  was  still  in 
the  chorus.  Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  few  min- 
utes. 

"  I  have  been  expecting  every  morning  to  find  her 
gone,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  think  she  only  waited  to 
finish  this."  She  gently  unfolded  the  fine  lawn  robe, 
and  they  saw  the  delicate  insertion  and  the  wonder- 
ful embroidery. 

"  I  asked  her  once,"  said  the  girl,  "  why  she 
wasted  so  much  work  on  them.  They  were  mostly 
only  for  poor  people.  '  One  never  knows,  dearie,' 
she  answered,  with  that  childish  smile  of  hers.  '  It 
may  be  for  a  little  Christ.'  ' 

They  would  not  let  less  loving  hands  come  near 
her. 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  345 

Her  father  had  completed  his  business,  and  both 
were  glad  to  leave  London.  She  had  a  sense  of 
something  sinister,  foreboding,  casting  its  shadow 
on  the  sordid,  unclean  streets,  the  neglected  buildings 
falling  into  disrepair.  A  lurking  savagery,  a  half- 
veiled  enmity  seemed  to  be  stealing  among  the  peo- 
ple. The  town's  mad  lust  for  pleasure:  its  fierce, 
unjoyous  laughter :  its  desire  ever  to  be  in  crowds  as 
if  afraid  of  itself:  its  orgies  of  eating  and  drinking: 
its  animal-like  indifference  to  the  misery  and  death 
that  lay  but  a  little  way  beyond  its  own  horizon! 
She  dared  not  remember  history.  Perhaps  it  would 
pass. 

The  long,  slow  journey  tried  her  father's  strength, 
and  assuming  an  authority  to  which  he  yielded  obe- 
dience tempered  by  grumbling,  Joan  sent  him  to  bed, 
and  would  not  let  him  come  down  till  Christmas 
Day.  The  big,  square  house  was  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town  where  it  was  quiet,  and  in  the  afternoon 
they  walked  in  the  garden  sheltered  behind  its  high 
brick  wall. 

He  told  her  of  what  had  been  done  at  the  works. 
Arthur's  plan  had  succeeded.  It  might  not  be  the 
last  word,  but  at  least  it  was  on  the  road  to  the  right 
end.  The  men  had  been  brought  into  it  and  shared 
the  management.  And  the  disasters  predicted  had 
proved  groundless. 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  indulge  in  all  your  mad 
schemes,"  he  laughed,  "  but  there'll  be  enough  to 
help  on  a  few.  And  you  will  be  among  friends. 
Arthur  told  me  he  had  explained  it  to  you  and  that 
you  had  agreed." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     "  It  was  the  last  time  he 


346  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

came  to  see  me  in  London.  And  I  could  not  help 
feeling  a  bit  jealous.  He  was  doing  things  while  I 
was  writing  and  talking.  But  I  was  glad  he  was  an 
Allway.  It  will  be  known  as  the  Allway  scheme. 
New  ways  will  date  from  it." 

She  had  thought  it  time  for  him  to  return  indoors, 
but  he  pleaded  for  a  visit  to  his  beloved  roses.  He 
prided  himself  on  being  always  able  to  pick  roses 
on  Christmas  Day. 

"  This  young  man  of  yours,"  he  asked,  "  what  is 
he  like?" 

"  Oh,  just  a  Christian  gentleman,"  she  answered. 
"  You  will  love  him  when  you  know  him." 

He  laughed.  "And  this  new  journal  of  his?" 
he  asked.  "  It's  got  to  be  published  in  London, 
hasn't  it?" 

She  gave  a  slight  start,  for  in  their  letters  to 
one  another  they  had  been  discussing  this  very 
point. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  could  be  circulated  just 
as  well  from,  say,  Birmingham  or  Manchester." 

He  was  choosing  his  roses.  They  held  their 
petals  wrapped  tight  round  them,  trying  to  keep  the 
cold  from  their  brave  hearts.  In  the  warmth  they 
would  open  out  and  be  gay,  until  the  end. 

"Not  Liverpool?"   he   suggested. 

"  Or  even  Liverpool,"  she  laughed. 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  then  beyond  the 
sheltering  evergreens  and  the  wide  lawns  to  where 
the  great  square  house  seemed  to  be  listening. 

"  It's  an  ugly  old  thing,"  he  said. 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  she  contradicted.  "  It's  simple 
and  big  and  kind.  I  always  used  to  feel  it  disap- 


All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary  347 

proved  of  me.  I  believe  it  has  come  to  love  me,  in 
its  solemn  old  brick  way." 

11  It  was  built  by  Kent  in  seventeerr-forty  for  your 
great-great  grandfather,"  he  explained.  He  was 
regarding  it  more  affectionately.  "  Solid  respecta- 
bility was  the  dream,  then." 

"  I  think  that's  why  I  love  it,"  she  said:  "  for  its 
dear,  old-fashioned  ways.  We  will  teach  it  the  new 
dreams,  too.  It  will  be  so  shocked,  at  first." 

They  dined  in  state  in  the  great  dining-room. 

"  I  was  going  to  buy  you  a  present,"  he  grumbled. 
"  But  you  wouldn't  let  me  get  up." 

"  I  want  to  give  you  something  quite  expensive, 
Dad,"  she  said.  "  I've  had  my  eye  on  it  for  years." 

She  slipped  her  hand  in  his.  "  I  want  you  to  give 
me  that  Dream  of  yours;  that  you  built  for  my 
mother,  and  that  all  went  wrong.  They  call  it 
Allway's  Folly;  and  it  makes  me  so  mad.  I  want 
to  make  it  all  come  true.  May  I  try?  " 

It  was  there  that  he  came  to  her. 

She  stood  beneath  the  withered  trees,  beside  the 
shattered  fountain.  The  sad-faced  ghosts  peeped 
out  at  her  from  the  broken  windows  of  the  little 
silent  houses. 

She  wondered  later  why  she  had  not  been  sur- 
prised to  see  him.  But  at  the  time  it  seemed  to  be 
in  the  order  of  things  that  she  should  look  up  and 
find  him  there. 

She  went  to  him  with  outstretched  arms. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
just  wanting  you." 

They  sat  on  the  stone  step  of  the  fountain,  where 


348  All  Roads  Lead  to  Calvary 

they  were  sheltered  from  the  wind;  and  she  buttoned 
his  long  coat  about  him. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  go  on  doing  it?  "  he 
asked,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I'm  so  afraid,"  she  answered  gravely.  "  That 
I  shall  come  to  love  you  too  much:  the  home,  the 
children  and  you.  I  shall  have  none  left  over." 

'There   is   an   old   Hindoo   proverb,"   he   said: 
'  That  when  a  man  and  woman  love  they  dig  a  foun- 
tain down  to  God. 

'  This  poor,  little  choked-up  thing,"  he  said, 
"  against  which  we  are  sitting;  it's  for  want  of  men 
and  women  drawing  water,  of  children  dabbling  their 
hands  in  it  and  making  themselves  all  wet,  that  it  has 
run  dry." 

She  took  his  hands  in  hers  to  keep  them  warm. 
The  nursing  habit  seemed  to  have  taken  root  in  her. 

"  I  see  your  argument,"  she  said.  "  The  more 
I  love  you,  the  deeper  will  be  the  fountain.  So  that 
the  more  Love  I  want  to  come  to  me,  the  more  I 
must  love  you." 

"Don't  you  see  it  for  yourself?"  he  demanded. 

She  broke  into  a  little  laugh. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  admitted.  "  Per- 
haps that  is  why  He  made  us  male  and  female:  to 
teach  us  to  love." 

A  robin  broke  into  a  song  of  triumph.  He  had 
seen  the  sad-faced  ghosts  steal  silently  away. 


THE    END 


A     000  111  419     8 


